Phil and I worked for over an hour last night on one of those projects for Oscar's first grade class--a poster about him and his favorite things. We meticulously cut out pictures, scrapbook paper, and glued everything on poster board. Well, it wasn't perfect, but it was close. It was one of those things when you've finished it, you sit back and say, "Ah, now that was an hour well spent," and you're proud of what you've done.
Oscar bounded into our room this morning, and I directed him to his poster, to see what he thought. A few minutes later, I rose and went to check on him. He was happily labeling all his pictures (which I had decided not to do, due to lack of space) and crossing things out when he made a mistake.
I marvel at mothers who with such apparent calm, either act like they don't mind, or truly don't, that their child has just broken or ruined thus and so. I am sadly not one of them, and have often wondered at my obsession with perfection, which more than likely began during my own childhood for reasons I won't get into on this blog.
I mean, what is so great about perfection anyway? How can we even define it? Who is to say the poster wasn't finally perfect after Oscar's changes? After all, it was his poster, right? And maybe the larger question is, why am I getting so bent out of shape over a poster, and even worse, feel the need to blog about it?
After my mimi-meltdown, I took Oscar in my arms, gave him a kiss and told him I knew he was just trying to help. I guess perfection is what you make of it.
2 comments:
Why did you do his project for him?
I can relate. When I have a student working with me, I get really frustrated that their handwriting doesn't look the same as mine, and that they have organized their thoughts on the office note differently than I would. Then I think, it's just an office note. But I do love my white out.
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