Spell It

One of my favorite pictures I’ve taken is that of “Senior Send Off.” At our local High School, the Seniors are lured outside by the principal under the pretense of “let me get a group picture,” and the local fire department, behind them, sprays water over them. The effects are comical to say the least – kids run everywhere.

I ran across the photo while looking back through my archives: it made me smile, but it also made me think of kids in general.

For several years now I have written a weekly column (The Printer’s Devil) and I tend to focus on things that happen to me – a large part of which includes what the kids in my own household do. (Yes, I know I have promised to get my “Collected Works” together and publish them, but haven’t had time yet. “Too many irons in the fire” is a daily phrase for me – but, I will get the book formatted and posted for sale at some point folks. Sorry for any delays.)

At any rate, the photo, for some reason, made me think of one of my old columns: “Spell It.”

Spell It

The eight year-old in our home has gotten used to my style and demeanor. As she made her sandwich for school the other morning, I looked at her and proclaimed she had been brought to Earth by aliens. She never even looked up: “Your mom’s an alien,” she said. Good reply. I took it as an encouraging sign.

You see, they say step-children can be a challenge: mine are not so much. I have tried to independently create relationships with them to allow them the freedom to view me however they wish. Mxxy (the eight year-old) has formed the above mentioned type of relationship: she’s a ham. And, she is really is merit based in her motivations at this stage. Way more than I ever was. For instance, the entire house was subjected to the next major undertaking she was to participate in for about a month: the Third Grade Spelling Bee, because she wanted the trophy.

The whole month amused me: I think it might have started to annoy the older kids a little, but me? I thought it was great.

“Okay, spell ‘irrigate,” I said, looking at her list of potential words.
“Irrigate. I-r-r-i-g-a-t-e. Irrigate,” she finished. “Good job,” I said. Then I would take a word that was nowhere near the list she had and throw it out to her. “Xylophone,” I said. She is far from stupid. “That’s not on the list,” she informed me.
“But, what if it was?” I countered. She attempted to spell it and got it right. “Holy cow,” I thought. “She’s pretty good.” On the car ride to school I threw out “supercalifragilisticexpialidocious” just to see what the reaction would be. She didn’t even acknowledge it but gave me a mock glare. I smiled.

She has adapted quite well over the past couple of years to the influx of people into her life. When my oldest son went off to Basic Training, she wanted to write him a letter. She had formed a nice relationship with him (mainly because he would do whatever she said). She based the letter’s composition off a letter my son had written home which I read aloud to the family.

In it, he said he was made to run a lot (of course) and was kept quite busy doing a myriad of things of which wonderful experience only Basic Training can provide. Like, getting yelled at by drill sergeants, doing pushups, and cleaning things repetitively. She listened attentively as I read the letter.

A few days later, she wrote him back. Before stuffing it into an envelope and sending it off, I read it: “Dear Gxxx, you sound miserable,” she started. She said she thought that the whole thing he was experiencing sounded like a bad idea. She concluded, possibly feeling bad for him, on a positive note: “At least you always have something to do because you are running all the time.” I thought it was a cheerful sentiment. I’m sure my son thought it was encouraging when he finally got to read it.

The spelling bee was the current thing on her mind, however. She practiced, was quizzed multiple times by the whole household, and had her list down to a “T.” She, after I gave her the same word twelve times (even though she spelled it right every time) had “metamorphosis” memorized to the point where she could probably spell it in her sleep.

Everyone gave her valuable suggestions and former spelling bee experiences: “I misspelled “pants,” said one: “I left out the “a.” Other children in the household proclaimed that they wouldn’t make it past the first round in the contest. I gave her the extremely valuable suggestion of how to knock out another student by coughing and saying the wrong letter as another student attempted to spell a word to throw them off. She laughed at it, and, of course, knew I was teasing. I told her the only way I could win it, was by cheating (an exceedingly difficult thing to pull off in a spelling bee).

The day came for the big event. Driving her to school that morning I asked her if she was ready: “Yes,” she said. But, I could tell it was making her nervous. She said her stomach hurt some.

I am a softy. I will laugh and joke with the children all day long. Enjoying children is one of God’s great gifts, when they are not being a pain in the butt, that is. But you have to pick your battles.

“Listen,” I said. “Regardless of whether you win or not, we will go get ice-cream after school. I think that just being selected for the spelling bee was accomplishment enough. So, no matter how it turns out, we will celebrate.”

She agreed that ice cream would be a relevant reward to her efforts, but the thought did not help her stomach much I think. For the eight year old, the spelling bee was the equivalent of an adult taking a very important test. It had some weight.
I dropped her off and watched her walk away. The spelling be wasn’t until 1 p.m. It was going to be a long morning for the kiddo.

A little after 1 p.m., I started getting texts from her mother and pictures showing the various kids still left after each round. She was in every one of them as the group size diminished. Now I was getting anxious.

After about a half hour of texts and pictures, she was still in the contest. I wondered what words she was getting. Did they give her xylophone? The teachers, I was informed prior, had a “secret word list” in case the spelling bee wasn’t determined from the given list. My mind raced. I wondered what secret words could be included on a secret list for third graders. Probably stuff I couldn’t even spell. Ugh. What was taking so long?

Then, I got the picture: there she was holding the trophy and first place ribbon. Both the ribbon and trophy were turned around backwards which was comical to my mind. But, she had won it!

As promised, I took her to get ice cream after school. She recounted the whole thing, from start to finish for me. I got a blow-by-blow account of how she took first place (and, how the microphone was too tall for her to speak into). It was glory for her, though. Every detail counted.

And the word that knocked the last kid out of the contest? “Metamorphosis. M-e-t-a-m-o-r-p-h-o-s-i-s. Metamorphosis.” I was happy for her.