That will bring us back to Do(h!)

My beautiful Anarchist is six years old. My Anarchist loves to sing loudly, and exuberantly and without inhibition, the way six year olds do. She loves it more than anything else. Sometimes she sings so loudly, and joyfully, and freely that she gets a bit off-key. But that's okay, because she is learning to love music, and express herself through the medium. She's learning that music is joyful, and beautiful, and exhilarating. She's getting a sense of rhythm and phrasing. She's learning to fall in love with an art form. We love this, and we love that her lungs even work, so we don't mind if, now and then, she's just not hitting the pitch. We don't fuss, or fret, or point it out to her.

Apparently, that's the school's job:

Now, the Anarchist is six, so her vocal chords aren't completely developed. Neither are her defense mechanisms, so the child is extremely vulnerable and sensitive. But it turns out that, at six, her reading skills are rather well-developed, as is her natural sense of curiosity. So, too, is her awareness of what "matching pitch" means (she comes from an extended family of music educators). So I was more than a touch concerned when I realized that she had probably read this report card over my shoulder.

Now, I've heard enough horror stories from adults who were singled out as "pitchy" singers as very young children who now refuse to sing a note, ever, not even in the shower. Someone killed their joy very early on in life and now they won't even try. Silly me, I thought we left that style of music education in the fifties along with the angry, ruler-wielding nuns. Nope. Nope. The Anarchist got a "2" in singing because she can't match pitch. At six. 

If the child were sixteen, and singing in a high school choir class, I would certainly hope that someone would be working on matching pitch with her, would point it out and attempt to correct it, would indicate on a report card that she had yet to acquire that crucial skill. No one likes singing next to the misguided diva who thinks she is God's gift to singing, but doesn't bother to even try to hit the right notes. I certainly wouldn't want her to grow into one of those infamous American Idol first-episode auditionees. I don't want her to be oblivious or delusional...when she's an adult.  But, in case I've neglected to mention this:

The child is six. 

The Anarchist heads off to school to
be tested, graphed and analyzed...
on her singing ability?

Now, I'm not saying her teacher is singling her out in class, making her feel bad, causing her to hate singing. I imagine her teacher is probably rather sensitive and kind, and is simply working on this skill with the entire class, and maybe giving the Anarchist the attention she needs to develop a better sense of pitch. That would be fine. That would be lovely. But the report card thing...not so lovely. The report card thing gives rise to a variety of questions and concerns.

The report card thing makes me wonder if this is just another attempt to quantify/measure/assess certain aspects of childhood--heck, of life--that cannot and should not be quantified/measured/assessed. My children spend more time taking standardized tests than they do being creative, exploring, or learning to interact with one another. They are charted, graphed, and analyzed at every turn. But the really valuable things in life can't be measured this way. And music and art, I had hoped, were the last bastions of creativity and non-standardized humanity in an increasingly statistics-saturated/test-centered school system. I had hoped. But why are they bothering to report (and why do they care to tell me) that the Anarchist is singing out of tune unless they are intentionally measuring or testing for such a thing...unless the schools are required to report some tangible outcome to legitimize the existence of a music class in the first place. With music programs being cut from schools left and right (congratulations, Lansing, you're famous for this, now), I wouldn't be shocked to discover if my Anarchist's teacher was required  to assess and report such a thing, just to justify the very presence of music in schools.*

Or maybe it's like the time the Dictator's kindergarten teacher suggested hand-writing camp (I kid you not, it's like boot camp only way, way, more lame) because her letters were a bit squiggly...because she was, ya know, five. Maybe our school has the time and resources to afford to be unnaturally nitpicky and ambitious. Maybe.


The report card thing also makes me wonder if the music program's priorities are quite right. I understand as well as anyone that singing is a nuanced skill that can be taught, but takes practice, hard work, and coaching. I get that my daughter should be learning to develop basic musical skills. But I also know that, unless I'm trying to create a virtuoso or thrust her into the children's chorus of an opera, I should let this take a natural amount of time. I should not be concerned that the skill isn't coming quickly enough. She's six. Of course she doesn't always sing in tune. This is the age where children learn to love and embrace the art form...where they become enchanted by, and engaged with its depth and richness, by its exciting variety.** Why does her teacher not report about her joy and love for singing? About her eagerness to participate in music class? Why not focus on the things that won't alter drastically in six years when her voice does?

More than anything else, I'm concerned about the report card because my Anarchist is six, my Anarchist is sensitive, and my Anarchist can read. If she saw what I think she saw, I will be very surprised if she doesn't go the way of the traumatized adults who keep their mouths clamped shut during the music at church, who won't sing in the shower, who don't find freedom and joy in singing. And (I'm sure I'm being a bit sensitive here...you don't hear me complaining that she got a "2" in math***) that would kill me.

Because her lungs work. And she uses them. And she uses music to experience joy. And she's six. 

So that's what it should be all about.


(This has been a melodramatic rant-fest by the daughter of disgruntled arts educators. She may be taking this a touch too seriously. But she loves the arts, hates all this testing nonsense, and is maybe just a little bit protective of her children's feelings. Their feelings. Not their physical selves. She lets their physical selves dive off of bunk beds, get into wrestling matches, ski down the stairs, and eat pennies. The Anarchist once ate half a bottle of sunscreen before she noticed. But their emotions? Yeah. That's when she gets all helicopter-mom.)

*Or maybe the Anarchist is just singing so loudly, and so out-of-tune, that the poor music teacher just can't take it any more and is reaching out to me, begging, pleading for me to please do something at home to help make the bad noises stop. This is a very real possibility. And one that I'm prepared to brazenly ignore.

**I'm not suggesting that my elementary school education was much better. We mostly spent the entire hour of music class watching, horrified, as our teacher spun in unattractive circles, clapping, and loudly crowing such classic hits as "La Cucharacha" and "Old Dan Tucker." But at least no one felt the need to tell our parents that we couldn't sing. Ahh...the good old days.

***Although, math actually is something that is easily quantified and measured. Because it's...uh...math.

Hu's fault.

The Dictator engages in coloring fun with Grandma.
Here, she demonstrates hideous crayon-grip technique.

In an earlier post, I discussed the rigorous training of kindergarten children that will doubtless put them ahead of all those Chinese five and six year-olds that think they're so darned smart.  The bulk of this training consists of a handwriting regimen that would make a 1950's Catholic school nun proud.  Since that time, many handwriting-related developments have/have not taken place.


Update:

• We still haven't even touched our handwriting packet that is due in a week--I say "our," because obviously, there's no way she's going to do it without me, and that's the point.  I'm supposed to be in on the whole plan.  They learn better that way.  Also, it's much easier for your kids to know whether or not they should report you to the proper authorities for disloyalty based upon your willingness to help Mother America in her campaign for world domination via handwriting...or not.  

• After volunteering in the Dictator's class last week, I was much relieved to discover that, despite numerous pleas that the Bureaucrat and I work with the Dictator on her apparently sub-par handwriting technique, by no means does she have the worst handwriting in her class.  Her "5"s don't look like "2"s...or "S"s, for that matter.  I'd say that's something...especially after observing some of those other munchkins struggling with writing numbers on math worksheets--and understandably so...let me reiterate: they're FIVE!  In fact, in my inexpert opinion, her handwriting is actually quite nice for that of a five year old.  It's at least as nice as Pretty Headband Girl's handwriting, and Pretty Headband Girl is Pretty Headband Girl, for pete's sake!

• This morning, I was devastated and, quite frankly, horrified to discover a note in the Dictator's backpack that revived all my old fears about my daughter's handwriting-related inadequacy.  "We are working on the Dictator's pencil grip.  Please help her practice at home holding a cotton ball in her palm as she writes...or ELSE!"*  Okay, so that last part wasn't actually explicitly written, but it was strongly implied.  I panicked.  If my daughter can't correctly grip a pencil, how will she ever succeed in life/topple the Communistic regime that is China/establish economic world dominance for her nation?  Frantically, I searched through her bag for clues...anything to help me understand what had gone so terribly wrong. I soon discovered a plastic bag, neatly tucked behind the note (okay, so all my frantic searching was really rather ludicrous and mostly for show. I like drama).  In the bag was a stubby pencil, a wadded up piece of cotton or tissue or something, a broken crayon, and a severed finger.  Okay, so the last object wasn't actually there, but it was strongly implied.  I know now what I have to do.

• For the next nine days, while other families are splashing around in Florida, or whatever it is people with money do on midwinter break, the Dictator and I will be jamming wadded up paper into her palm and concerning ourselves with pencil grip as we complete her handwriting packet with the dedication of two patriots who love their country, hate Communism, love handwriting, and hate Hu. 
  
  To be fair, I don't actually hate Mr. Hu Jintao.  I don't even hate Communism.  I don't love it (don't blacklist me, don't blacklist me), but I don't hate it.  I mostly hate handwriting packets and I'm projecting this hatred onto a safe scapegoat.  Because I'd rather face the wrath of an entire nation with the potential to muster enough economic strength to compete globally or what-have-you, than let on to the Dictator that there might be something about her school's curriculum I'm less than excited about.  Because the good lord knows that child would find a way to use my negativity to conquer me, her school, and the rest of the world.  And she would really give Hu a run for his money...unless he engaged her in a pencil-gripping contest.

* For those who are unaware, I tend toward exaggeration.  I actually adore the Dictator's teacher, disagreements about the importance of early handwriting perfection notwithstanding.  She's funny, energetic, patient, creative, fun and lovely.  And the Dictator has fun in her class...that is, as much fun as a dictator can have when she is not the one in charge.  Both the Dictator and the Anarchist are extremely lucky to have the teachers that they do this year.  I don't know how teachers do it.  And I'm afraid to ask.  Because then they might tell me...and I'd have no excuses left for being a mediocre parent.

Handwriting, Homework and Hu: beating the Chinese one pencil stroke at a time.

Flashback to 1995:  A roomful of wide-eyed eighth graders is receiving a rousing lecture from the Superintendent of the school district on the importance of science and language in the curriculum.  “We need YOU to be able to compete globally.  It will be essential that each and every one of you take four years of Spanish computer programming and engineering in order for our country to continue to thrive!”  he says with a great deal of certainty.  My urbane, and way-more-cultured-than-the-rest-of-us friend looks up with a bemused grin, sets aside the legwarmer she is knitting (way ahead of the knitting trend), and asks how it is essential for ALL of us to learn these things, considering some of us might intend to go into the arts.  “Why do I need to learn Spanish and computer programming if I intend to pursue a career in dance?  And what about the importance of developing a greater cultural understanding and a base of creative citizens through encouraging a wider education in the liberal arts and humanities?”  The Superintendent looks at her with a look that says that the answer should be clear to everyone—and which also, I believe, proves how foreign the concepts of humanities and culture are to his business-consumed mind—and says, “To beat the Chinese of course!”*

Flash forward to 2011:  A classroom full of exhausted and confused kindergarteners is darting frantically from station to station, practicing handwriting, counting by 2s, 5s and 10s, memorizing sight words, and working diligently on fine motor development.  The little boys are bored, discouraged and antsy, as they would much prefer to fling blocks at each other.  The little girls are tired and dazed from trying so hard all day long.  No one gets play time; no one gets recess.  Watch out China…we’re catching up!

 

The Dictator traces the number "6" with agonizing
concentration.  All for the cause, my tiny compatriot,
all for the cause.

Kindergarten curriculum has come a long way since inflatable Letter People, singalongs, and sand tables.  Kindergarteners are expected to learn to read and write at a capacity their parents would not have reached until 3rd grade, at least.  And of course, there are only so many hours in a day, so this necessitates homework...for five-year-olds.  Never mind that the Dictator can't yet tie her shoes or understand the basic social mores involved in sharing toys; she is one more soldier in the fight for world dominance, and she will practice reading, math and handwriting with the passion befitting such a warrior.  

A very special celebration for the students who
return their work on time.  A very special shaming
ceremony for those who do not. 

Wait...did I just say handwriting?  Obviously.  What better way to beat the Chinese and their dastardly Communist regime than by correct letter formation?  The Dictator frequently gets letters home urging us to drill her more diligently in this area.  It seems that correct letter formation is crucial to "competing globally" and showing Hu Jintao who's boss. In light of this, the Dictator has brought home more than one dense handwriting homework packet, in which she is expected to demonstrate "quality work."  

The goal of such rigorous training is twofold.  First, it weeds out the weak.  You can't sit still long enough to plow through 26 pages of drudgery because you're a six-year-old boy?  Can't quite grip that pencil correctly because your tiny, newly-hatched brain has yet to develop the necessary fine motor skills?  You would rather play with your dolls and take a much-needed nap than work on homework for two hours after school?  Weakling!  You fail!  The Communists will eat you alive!  Nothing like a little social Darwinism to up the academic ante, eh?

 Secondly, if for some reason, the United States does  fail to live up to its China-destroying goals (perhaps due to those ridiculous arts programs eating away at precious Spanish language and engineering class time), the next generation of American children might stand a fighting chance at surviving in our newly-colonized society.  After all, Chinese characters are even harder  to write.

So write on, little Dictator!  The nation applauds you.  And for all your self-sacrificing work we say, "Thank you."  I mean, "gracias."

The Dictator has her game face on. 
Take that, Hu!

The Anarchist gets a jumpstart
on handwriting practice.  Doing
her nation proud!

*At the time, I considered asking if it wouldn't be more useful to advocate courses in conversational Mandarin, rather than Spanish, if it was the Chinese we sought to "beat."  But the man clearly knew what he was talking about.  In retrospect it is obvious to me that Spanish and handwriting are the two most crucial tools in our arsenal if we are to maintain our dominance as a society.  I'm glad I didn't question him...it turns out he was a prophetic genius.

Why I Fail Kindergarten

The Anarchist's Reading Log, which
I have to remember to sign, comment on,
and return regularly.  I feel like it's a test of my
parenting aptitude.  And I fail.

I always did pretty well in school.  I followed the rules to the letter, was studious and curious, had a good memory, and caught on quickly.  The only real problem I ever had (besides the social issues that come with being a giant nerd) was my inability to remember to return permission slips, hand in field trip money, turn my assignments in by the stated due date, etc.  Having done equally well in college (there were less forms to turn in, thank goodness), I was feeling pretty good about myself.  Compared to discussing the complex and ultimately disjointed relationship between signifieds/signifiers, performing post-colonial analyses of various works of literature and wading slowly through Foucault, how hard could parenting a small child be?  Ah, the naivete of a young and childless 20-something!

Okay, so I was bad at the whole “baby” thing.  They don’t communicate with words, it turns out.  But I was excited for the school years.  After all, I do “school” well, right?  

This one is a long-term project that came home a month before it's even supposed to start.
I almost failed 6th Grade Social Studies--not because I couldn't remember the chief
exports of Brazil, but because I barely managed to turn in a single assignment on
time--and I'm supposed to remember to do this?!  I am in so  much trouble!

One of three or four reminder lists that came
home with the Dictator this month.  And I'm
still supposed to find time to feed and bathe her.

Only problem…being a parent is worlds different than being a student.  There are multiple, overlapping fundraisers in which to (not) participate, several homework assignments (both long-term and short-term), dress up days, days to bring gym shoes, days to remember snow pants, days to bring one-hundred tiny objects in a giant ziplock bag, days to bring in $2 for in-school field trips, days to bring $1 for two bags of popcorn (variant of the usual fundraisers), days to pack a stuffed animal for the “veterinary clinic,” days to return library books in the designated library-returning-to-school-bag, days to bring in something starting with the letter “S,” daily snacks, “wear pink” day (preschool), Valentine’s Day (with handmade cards, themed outfits and the whole nine yards), and days when we actually have to remember to cram in a bath because the  five-year-old has dreadlocks and the three year old is walking around in the midst of a visible cloud of dust and grime.  

 And of course, these are just tots.  I can’t hold them responsible for their own school projects/fundraising projects/homework/permission slips.  And they are devastated if I forget, which I invariably do.  I feel terrible.  I am certainly not cut out for this job.  I’m sure my children’s hyper-organized teachers are judging me severely for my lack of parenting prowess.  I’m sure that the Dictator will be scarred for life by that one time I forgot to put the handwriting packet into the folder and she was denied a celebratory lollipop (I haven’t forgotten yet, but I anticipate it as likely).  I have no doubt that the Anarchist will fail in life (or at least, lose a finger to frostbite) as a result of my inability to properly label her winter garments with her full name.  

My only solace is in the fact that I have a sneaking suspicion that I’m not the only parent suffering from this character flaw.  After all, those “reminder” letters politely reiterating the importance of turning in homework projects that are already a week-past-due, can’t all be directed exclusively at the Morton family?  Right?

The soon-to-be Toy Story 3-themed preschool Valentines...that
I should be working on right now, instead of ranting.  I'll get
right on that...but then I think I deserve a celebratory lollipop.

bus stop hooligans

Oh, the sweet sounds of children after the first big snow of winter!

"Look at the snowballs I can make!"

"Let's follow the tracks!  They're amazing!"

"I'm making snow angels!"

"It's like skating in my boots!"

"I was trying to build a fort but then the gay bus came and ruined it!  That f#@*ing bus always ruins everything!  G#dd#*n bus!"

The dreaded bus stop.  The girl with crossed arms is the only non-hooligan.

Oh from the mouths of babes!  That last little gem issued forth from the cherubic face of an eight-year-old at the Dictator's bus stop.  And did I mention that the snow angels and the skating were occurring in the middle of the icy street?

I wish I could say that this was unusual, that these were generally sweet little children who happened to be seized by a momentary seasonal fervor and, say, Turrets.  But alas, we are beset by bus stop hooligans and no efforts of mine seems to be able to thwart their insanity.

Now, unlike the Dictator, or even the Bureaucrat, I lack the ability to be truly assertive, even amongst the tinier set.  But as the only adult present, I've had to try (and, I think, fail).  For example, I don't say anything when the 3rd grader, the 4th grader and the tag-along 1st and 2nd graders--all orphans, apparently--play tackle tag in the neighbors' yards, shrieking maniacally all the while.  The neighbors can do that, should they feel so compelled.  Nor do I say a word when they cross the street to "play with" another neighbor's dog through the fence.  But when one 2nd grader goes after another one with a tree branch, I feel it necessary to step in.  And they look at me like I'm the first adult that's ever told them that it might not be a fantastic idea to go all Lord of the Flies on each other.  And when I told my own little darlings that they weren't allowed to follow the hooligans into the street for a game of "Throw Yourself Face First into a Puddle of Water in the Midst of Oncoming Traffic," I was bestowed the (mumbled) title of "B#tch" by a smug 3rd grader-going-on-sixteen-year-old. 

The Anarchist weeps at the bus stop, as even she realizes that the world is going to hell in a handbasket.

Maybe we live in a particularly rough neighborhood.  It seems, from my inquiries into the matter, that at other bus stops on the fancier side of town, where children are blessed with such luxuries as parents, things are different.  Adults don't let six-year-olds run amok, out of sight, out of mind.  But we don't live in such ostentatious places. We live in a place where, as of right now, I am the only parent willing to show my face in elementary school society.  And show it I will, right up until the time they graduate (okay, maybe not...I don't want to breed social outcasts).



The fact of the matter is--and this may be elitist, but so be it--I don't want them picking up the habits/and attitudes of their uncivilized (and often mean-spirited) peers.  The Dictator is already learning a slew of new vocabulary (none of which will be appearing on spelling tests any time in the future).  And while the Anarchist delights in the anarchy, I think that her tendency to run blindly into the street might be something that calls for constant adult supervision.  So I'll be the (apparently, only) protective mom.  And I'll try to be okay with it.  Or maybe I'll just home school instead.  After all, if they learn any obscenity, I want it to be from me.

The Dictator emerges from the bus unscathed...for now.

bitty love triangles

I guess charisma comes with the territory of being a dictator. I never expected it would happen this early, but our little Dictator has been working her charismatic charms on all of the little kindergarten men, and as a result, has become something of a heartthrob.

Last year there were hints of this dilemma. While she was swooning over a classmate who happened to look good in a hat, another little guy--we'll just call him Quiet Little Red-Haired Boy--was pining for her attention. She came around eventually, but he endured a great deal of wistful waiting before she realized that maybe Quiet Little Red-Haired Boy was worthy of her time.

This year, it's Little Blond-Haired Boy, who is equally adorable, sweet and intelligent (I don't know about the Dictator's taste in men, but I do know that the ones who pursue her are parent-pleasers for sure...let's hope this lasts through college). This year, the Dictator took less time to notice. I suspect that this is partly due to the wisdom that comes with experience, and partly due to his following her like a lost puppy for the entire first month of kindergarten, begging her to marry him. Whatever the reason, she relented early and began enjoying the attention her romantic entanglements elicited from the rest of the class.

Unfortunately these attentions were not all positive. The superior social sophistication of kindergarteners brought with it a problem that the Dictator, with only preschool relationship experience, could not have anticipated--jealousy. I'm not sure that there aren't equally worthy boys in the Dictator's class who would make excellent matches for those kindergarten girls seeking a committed 5-year-old relationship. But let's be honest, ladies, they're always more desirable when they're taken, aren't they? Little Blond-Haired Boy is no different. No sooner did the Dictator and Little Blond-Haired Boy begin to exchange vows in a lovely, quaint playground ceremony, than the Dictator's braids were set upon by a jealous and enraged female rival, bent on "objecting" to the union in a dramatic fashion.

Of course, this did nothing to dissuade the Dictator, who now saw the relationship as less of a novelty and more of a challenge. "Little Blond-Haired Boy really likes me the best. He wants to marry me. But he doesn't like Enraged Braid Puller at all, and that makes Enraged Braid Puller ticked. I think SHE wants to marry him!" she says with a smug grin. Lovely.

There are other more subtle jealousies present, too. Pretty Headband Girl who lives next door to Little Blond-Haired Boy and was, up until now, his best friend, burst into tears and fled into her house upon seeing the Dictator approach Little Blond-Haired Boy's house for a play date. And I'm pretty sure I saw rolling 5-year-old eyes when the topic was brought up on the day I volunteered in the Dictator's classroom.

Thankfully, I have complete confidence that the Dictator, like her mother, will become the world's biggest nerd by the time she hits 8-years-old, thereby resolving these issues quickly. At least, I hope that will be the case. Because, apparently, hell hath no fury like a kindergartener scorned.

alphabet wars

This past week I was made aware of a troubling incident. My youngest, the Anarchist, had been involved in an alphabet-related physical altercation at preschool. In short, she had been in a fight over the letter "C." Previously, my associations with the letter "C" had been benign, even light-hearted--"C is for COOKIE, that's good enough for me," and the like. I had been ignorant to the very real threat of violence surrounding this letter and the life lessons my daughter would take from it. This is how I came to discover that something had been amiss:

(We're in the Anarchist's preschool classroom, hanging her coat on a miniature hook. I turn around and am face to face with a sullen three-year-old boy. He is clutching an elaborate drawing featuring a very troubled-looking stick person.)

Me: Hi.

Sullen Boy's Mother: Sullen Boy, give it to the Anarchist. Give her your drawing. Right now.

Random Shrieking Preschooler with Separation Anxiety: AHHH!! (lunges towards the door, throwing herself around her father's legs in a very dramatic fashion)

The Anarchist (utterly distracted by the shrieking girl): Oh NO! Poor, poor Shrieking Girl! She wants her Mommy!

Me: Anarchist, Sullen Boy is trying to give you something. (grabs the Anarchist's chin in a vain attempt to turn her head and notice Sullen Boy)

The Anarchist (stubbornly refusing to turn her head): Shrieking girl is CRYING! It's okay, Shrieking Girl!

Sullen Boy's Mother: Sullen Boy, give it to her RIGHT NOW.
(Sullen Boy silently thrusts his elaborate drawing in the Anarchist's general direction)

Me: Anarchist! Anarchist! Focus! Sullen Boy is trying to give you a pretty drawing!

Sullen Boy's Mother (very sternly): And what do you tell the Anarchist, Sullen Boy?

Sullen Boy: (mumbled) Sorry.

Me: Anarchist, say "thank you."

The Anarchist (confused by the whole scenario and looking longingly toward the nametag table where her cherished nametag awaits): Thank you.

(I mouth "for what?" to Sullen Boy's Mother, and her response startles me)
Sullen Boy's Mother: Oh, you didn't hear?

(I shake my head, bewildered)

Sullen Boy's Mother (with a gravity I hadn't realized was warranted by an alphabetical altercation): Apparently, last week they were in a fight over the letter "C." (dramatic pause) And Sullen Boy hit the Anarchist in the head.

This is the point at which I started laughing. I'm sorry, but a fight over the letter "C" just sounds like hilarity itself. Apparently, I was naive to be so amused, because Sullen Boy's mother was aghast at my inability to see how serious the situation truly was. Oops. I composed myself, led the Anarchist to her precious nametag, and was off, all the time wondering why I hadn't heard of this situation sooner. Clearly, the Anarchist must have instigated the whole thing, probably deserved being hit on the head, had retaliated (as is her way), and wasn't talking because she didn't want to let me know she had been in trouble at preschool. It was at this point that I remembered something significant: the Gourd Friends.

The Gourd Friends are the Anarchist's favorite toy. She took a fancy to a basket of decorative seasonal gourds, named each one after a member of her preschool class, and spends countless hours reenacting preschool scenarios with these Gourd Friends. You would think the poor kid was deprived of real toys, the way she adores these things.

Anyway, all weekend long the gourd friends had been reenacting one particular scenario. Sullen Boy--played by a green, bumpy gourd--had been labeled "the really nice boy who hits everybody." Sullen Boy Gourd went around knocking all the other gourds down. And then the upended gourds would laugh uproariously and the whole thing would begin again. I had taken it for granted that she was reenacting a silly game her friends had played. It had never crossed my mind to think anything more of it. After all, she was laughing. It was funny, right?

The Anarchist's teacher brought it up when I came to pick her up from preschool today:

Teacher: Well, Sullen Boy and the Anarchist have been glued at the hip, today.

Me: I hadn't even realized there had been any problems between them, until Sullen Boy's Mom said something today.

Teacher (in a tone suggesting that this was just common knowledge): Oh yes. Sullen Boy and the Anarchist were having words about the letter "C" and Sullen Boy hit the Anarchist in the head.

Me: Oh no! Did the Anarchist instigate it? She did, didn't she?

Teacher (surprised, because apparently the Anarchist is a little angel at preschool): Not at all. They were just having a heated discussion. When he hit her--it wasn't hard enough to make her cry--she just looked stunned. Then she turned around and walked away. But I had to use my crabby voice. It was a big deal. All of the preschoolers were startled.

And this is the part I find most surprising of all. The Anarchist walked away?! From a fight?! This can NOT be my child! Of course, her chosen method of retaliation is hair-pulling, and Sullen Boy has a close-cropped haircut. So maybe she was just completely at a loss of how to deal with the situation in the absence of long hair?

Or maybe she, like her mother, finds the whole situation laughable. After all, the gourds laughed about it all weekend. Because, let's be honest here, how can you NOT laugh at a fight over the letter "C?"