My Haters are my Motivators: Bullying and Forgiveness.

warning: this post has no pictures, is super wordy, and really long. proceed!

About a month ago, we talked about bullying in my classroom management class. We began by talking in generalities; the concept of bullying seemed so distant to us as self-assured college adults.

Then, my professor asked us each to write down an experience with bullying--either as the bullied, or the bully--and drop it anonymously in a hat.

As she pulled the slips of paper out and read them, the normally lighthearted, last-class-on-a-Friday-afternoon attitude melted away and faces turned somber as we all returned to the memories of our fragile child-like state, back when we couldn't see our worlds beyond the playground gossip or the sound of lockers slamming.

We listened soberly as my professor read the stories of students in our very class who had endured physical or emotional abuse in school. I looked around. Everyone looked so confident, so adult-like. Surely none of them had been bullied? But they had. Even more difficult was listening to the stories of those who had been bullies themselves and then sorely regretted it.

It made me reflect. I wouldn't say that I was ever a target for bullies, but even so, I was teased just as much as anyone else, maybe more. I remember loving school but hating school at the same time. I remember tears shed in bathroom stalls and painful hours watching the clock so I could escape the prison of popularity contests and endless drama.

I look back, and all that seems so distant. I almost only have the good memories. I'm so grateful to be growing up and growing into myself, no longer worried about "the kids at school." (And if you are still in school, just know that in a few years, "the kids at school" won't even matter to you.)

When I was home for Christmas, I went into a dressing room at the mall. Lo and behold, the dressing room attendant was one of the meanest girls in the 7th grade. She hadn't really "bullied me," but I remember having classes with her and being teased by her. I was scared of her. As she took my shirt and led me to a dressing room, I thought, "Should I be trying to prove something right now? Like, how mature I am now? How I don't have glasses or chicken legs anymore? Should I be acting extra confident, just to show her?" But then I realized I really didn't care about what she thought. She didn't seem to remember me, and she looked like she had fallen on hard times, and I wished the best for her.

IT FELT GREAT.

It's really nice to look back and just get over things. So here I go:


Dear boy who said I looked like a sissy because I wore a dress to kindergarten,

We all say silly things when we are in kindergarten. I said many such things. And, you were right, I was a sissy! No hard feelings.
Love, Amy



Dear Girls who used to steal things from my bag in 7th grade art class and ask me inappropriate questions and call me a teachers pet and make fun of me until I got teary eyed,

Yeah. That was pretty mean. You guys weren't even "cool girls," but you just decided to tease me to make yourselves feel good about yourselves when I came into your class in the middle of the year and didn't know anyone. But that's okay. You just didn't have confidence in yourselves. Who does in 7th grade? Luckily, I have more confidence now. I hope you do too.
Love, Amy



Dear Boy who kicked me really hard in the stomach in 5th grade during a soccer game, even though the ball was nowhere near me and then laughed when I was on the ground with the air knocked outta me,

That was harsh. But I wholeheartedly forgive you for it. Even though you were probably the most conceited meathead the fifth grade ever saw. I mean, you thought you were the coolest thing since the Backstreet Boys, every point in your spiky hair was carefully shaped, and your mom brought you Starbucks during lunch. I wondered if you were still the same, so I looked you up on Facebook and you are shirtless and flexing with bottles of vodka in your profile pic. (really, it is borderline hilarious how you are exactly the same). I'm sure the natural course of life will hit you soon, and maybe you will be humbled. Maybe not. But I wish you the best! fo'realz.
Love, Amy


Last but not least:

Dear future students of mine:
I'm trying really hard to learn to be a good teacher, but you should know that I'm not perfect. Sometimes I just skim my readings, sometimes I am late to class, and sometimes I intend to write concise blog posts but instead write posts that fall just short of a novel. But know this: I will create a safe, bully-free environment for you to come to every day. I will teach you to respect each other and I will try to model that with my own actions.
Love, Amy
PS: you're not allowed to call me Amy when I'm a teacher, but since I don't post my last name on my blog, you can just call me Mrs. Fredette for now and we'll call it good.

Amy and the Terrible, Horrible, No-Good, Very Bad Day.

It's 10:30 a.m. on a Thursday right now. I slept four hours last night. I was writing a stupid paper. Dumb paper. It was on a literacy theory that I didn't even like. Dumb paper.

Then I woke up late this morning, and my eyes were burning really bad. Like, really bad. I put in my contacts and it stung like crazy. Like, really stung. And my hair looked awful, so I tried to straighten it, but I gave up and threw on my clothes and began to walk to class.

I walked all the way down the stairs at my apartment complex before I realized it was raining. So then I walked all the way back up the stairs and back into my apartment and into my room to get my umbrella. It had stopped raining by the time I stepped back outside. I ran down the stairs and stepped in a huge puddle at the bottom so that one leg got all wet.

I ate two granola bars for my breakfast as I walked, and then my throat got really dry, so I pulled out my water bottle from my backpack just as I summited the massive hill. Except I dropped the water bottle, and the lid popped off and all the water rushed out and began gushing down the walkway, and all the people behind me had to dodge the water and it was really embarrassing. Then I had to chase my water bottle down the hill because it was rolling, and when I picked it up, all the water had fallen out and the spout where my mouth goes was covered in dirt anyways. I was really thirsty, too.

By the time I got to class, I was an entire ten minutes late and my hair was crazy and my nose was sniffly and my pant leg was still wet. We were doing presentations.

Right before it was my turn to present, something got in my contact lens, like a piece of grit or something, and I had to blink like crazy but I couldn't get it out, so I just presented my theory with a piece of grit in my eye. And my voice kept cracking because I was tired. And now, class is over and I'm sitting in a vending machine room drinking chocolate milk thinking about what a terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad day this is turning out to be.


You've read that book, right? Well not Amy, but Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No-Good, Very Bad Day. I was just thinking about it because we read it in my drama class last week and talked about it last night.

I mean, poor Alexander! First of all, he woke up with gum in his hair and that's awful! And he didn't even get a prize in his cereal box, and his best friend decides to demote him to third best friend, and he gets a cavity and then at bedtime, he has to wear his railroad pajamas. And he hates his railroad pajamas. Like, really hates them.

It really was a bad day, and he didn't forget it. He wouldn't let himself forget it.

But you know how Shakespeare said that a rose by any other name smells as sweet? I disagree. If you call a rose a mucky-rotten-scum pocket you will probably think it smells a little less sweet. And if you call a bad day "bad" it's going to be bad, and when you call a bad day "good," it might be at least mediocre.

So I'm embracing my mediocre day, thankful that I get to go to my world religions class with the amazing professor who is possibly my favorite ever at BYU. And I get out of class at 1:30 and don't even have any commitments this afternoon so I can take a good nap in my warm bedroom with my new space heater.

This is turning out to be a pretty good, acceptable, semi-decent, all right day. And I'm gonna enjoy it.

Overcoming Ignorance.

It's frustrating to me that some people at BYU don't respect elementary education majors.

It was frustrating when someone told me that my future career was nothing but "glorified babysitting." It was also frustrating when someone implied that I was too dumb to understand a joke because I was an elementary ed major.

I once felt pressured by the "smart" majors around me, when someone told me, "YOU validate yourself in your own major." (you know who you are!) I took her advice and try to apply it every day. I want to be a smart, capable, hard-working teacher.

Maybe people just don't understand what an elementary teacher really does. Maybe they only know what they vaguely remember from their elementary school experience years ago. Maybe they only had terrible teachers growing up. Maybe they think that teachers just hand out worksheets and nag the kids to stop talking all day. Maybe they think the hardest part of the job is sharpening pencils.

Maybe they think that because teachers are paid like dirt, teachers are worth dirt.

Maybe they don't realize that teaching is both an art and a science. That teaching is a craft which is perfected over many years of experience. That a great teacher is a storyteller, a debate moderator, a scientist, a counselor, and a democratic leader (not a dictator).

Maybe they don't know that the word "worksheet" will be a forbidden word in my classroom, that my students will spend as much time out of their desks as they will in them. Maybe they don't realize that instead of reading about history from outdated textbooks, my students will act it out, will research it on their own, will debate it and teach each other about it.

Maybe they don't realize that, instead of accepting the crappy conditions of whichever underfunded school I find myself in, I will spend my weekends applying for grants so that my students will have better materials.

Maybe they think that the most time-consuming part of my future job will be un-jamming the copy machine so I can print more worksheets, when really, it will be building a time machine out of cardboard boxes late at night so my students will have something to inspire them as they read about the past.

Maybe they think I'll just yell at the kids to shut up and pray that the clock will go faster so I can go home and watch t.v., when instead I will be praying that my students will succeed, praying that they will feel loved, praying that I will know how to best teach them, every single day.

So when someone insults me because I'm an elementary education major, when someone insinuates that I must not be smart, when someone even just gives me a cocky smirk when I tell them that I want to be a teacher... I will give them the benefit of the doubt, just in case they don't realize the magnitude of my future profession.

But even so, I will pity them, because--even though they might be wealthier some day--they are already more ignorant and inconsiderate than I will ever allow myself to be.

And I will teach their children to know better.

The Work of a Teacher.

As I finish up my first semester of the elementary education program, I've really been reflecting on all that I've learned and experienced so far in this major. I'm grateful for so many professors who instilled in me an even greater desire to become an elementary school teacher.

Anyone who knows me at all knows that teaching is my passion. I'm not just an elementary education major because I think it'd be kinda fun. Or easy. Or something to fill the time until I get married and have babies.

Becoming a teacher is something that I have wanted to accomplish for a very long time. It's something that I feel strongly about, that I dream about, that I cry about. I think about the lessons that I will teach, I picture the faces of the children who will sit in my classroom, I pray earnestly that I will be able to be strong enough to be the kind of teacher who will touch lives and make a difference.

I have never doubted my choice of profession, ever since my senior year in high school when I volunteered in a first grade classroom every Monday. I saw the pure love of learning in their eyes, their innocent excitement for life. No other profession would do it for me, I think. I almost feel like becoming a teacher is my calling in life.

Which is why, unfortunately, it is frustrating for me to be surrounded by the derogatory attitudes and belittling comments of some people on my very campus, in my very ward, or even in my circles of friends. I don't understand it. I think every single major is worthwhile and challenging in its own way, and each one deserves respect. Why do people look down on elementary education?

Sure, engineers are smart. They work with concrete, with metal, with equations. Chemists are very smart. They work with beakers and acids and open flames.

Business majors are smart. They work with companies and contracts, spreadsheets and CEOs. Law students are smart. They work with logic, with cases, with clients, with crafting words into winning arguments.

Psychology majors are smart. They work with research, with theories, with the human mind. Journalism students are smart. Their craft is all about investigation, information, communication.

And elementary education majors are smart. They work with people. Small-ish people to be exact. Little people who sometimes show up with food spilled on their shirts, who ask to go to the bathroom a lot, who have a hard time keeping their hands to themselves. Tiny people who wiggle in their chairs.

These small people aren't as prestigious looking as a carefully tailored power suit. They aren't as wealth-inducing as a winning chemical compound. They aren't as hard-hitting as the conflict in the Middle-East. Standing in front of these children in a public school classroom, with its colorful posters and crowded desks, is never as prominent as standing in front of a courtroom, with its polished wood benches and brass doorknobs and high ceilings.

But make no mistake. These little children, who come skipping and sliding and trudging through classroom doors with ponytails and mud on their shoes, are more complicated than any engineer's equation or businessman's spreadsheet. Because they are humans. Big humans in little bodies. They each come with their own story, their own heartbreaks, their own talents, their own dreams. And their quickly unfolding paths can be affected, positively or negatively, by how much an elementary school teacher chooses to care. Their successes are more explosive and thrilling than any chemical reaction in any lab and their observations on life can be more profound than the theories of a psychologist.

Teaching children (and teaching them well- there's the catch) I believe, is one of the most challenging things I can choose to undertake. It may also be the most rewarding, for its consequences stretch into the eternities.

Because the life's work of a teacher...

...is teaching children of God.

I cry every time.

Tough Love.

Today was my last day tutoring my seven quirky fourth graders in the math resource room. I had great days in there and I had horrible days, but I really love those kids, and I mean it. They can be total troublemakers, but each one of them has such a loveable personality.

One little mister in the class was a mean one. But he was smart. Very, very smart. Kind of intimidating, actually.

When I first started working with him, he loved to insult me to my face and bully the other kids and tell dirty jokes, just to see me flustered. It didn't take me too long to stand my ground and he learned I wouldn't put up with his behavior.

But that wasn't enough. I had to learn to love him too. It was hard, when all I saw in him at first was trouble. But eventually I saw past his mean exterior, and discovered so many qualities I admired in him: his sharp wit, his quick comebacks, his competitive spirit, his confident swagger. I really liked this kid, and I made sure to tell him this every single week.

I was really tough on him, but I complimented him a lot, and I tried to never show that I was flustered. He still gave me a hard time, but asked me to work with him every week for the last month.

Today, after saying goodbye to all the kiddos as they were leaving class, I saw this little tough boy in the hallway. I said, "Hey! You gonna miss me??"

He scrunched up his face in disgust and then rolled his eyes and yelled "Maybe!!"

I said, "Oh, I KNOW you are!! ha!"

He tried not to let it, but the tiniest smile spread across his face. It made the last twelve weeks worth it.

Even the mean ones have a lot of sweetness in them.

Sophisticated Second Grade Science.

Today I spent the morning at an elementary school observing two different classes (the best way to spend a morning, in my opinion.)

I started in a second grade class, just as they were learning about sedimentary rocks in all their splendor. The teacher asked me to help a group of students with the rock packet they were working on, and so, kneeling low, I turned my teacher talk voice on and jumped into the action.

They were passing a rock around amongst themselves, talking animatedly about its colorful layers and grainy texture. The page they were on asked them to observe and describe the properties of the rock: its look, its feel, its smell...

The rock was passed energetically among the students as they talked and collaborated, light bulbs going off left and right. "What great kids," I thought.

They approached the smell question. "What does this rock smell like?" the paper asked. The students sat and contemplated. One boy reached for the rock, held it up to his nose, and breathed deeply.

He sat there in serious thought, reaching for the words to describe the sensation. All eyes were on him, waiting and wondering, until he opened his cute little second grade mouth and earnestly stated: "It smells like poop."

At the shocking word, red, flashing alarms went off wildly in the newly developing teacher part of my brain. "Take control of the situation Miss Amy! This is not going to go well!" I thought.

But instead, I waited and watched. Each child took a turn sniffing the rock and then passing it to their neighbor, calmly, collectively, maturely. In agreement, they all stated matter-of-factly: "Yep, this rock smells like poop."

I watched in a little bit of a stupor as each child neatly (or not so neatly) scrawled the word: "poop" on the line under the question, like little scientists recording their data, as proud as could be.

I picked up the rock and gave it a sniff. While the description may not be completely precise....

it did actually kind of smell like poop. So I give the kids total credit.

KIDS ARE WONDERFULLY HILARIOUS.

Becoming a Teacher.

Becoming a Teacher, Part One.

I walked slowly up the sidewalk on Thursday morning, shivering with my parka on in the cold rain and biting wind. I was heading to an elementary school for my weekly tutoring session in a special needs math class. I was resentful that it was so cold this early in October, I was still sleepy from a poor night's sleep, and I was more than a little downhearted as I glanced up at the dreary sky.

I had to blink hard to fight back tears.

The fourth grade students in the class were happy to see me. That made me smile a little. The teacher asked me to work with a few students in another room, including one boy I had worked with every single week so far.

He was a frustration. He never sat still. He laughed at me. He threw his pencil. He ripped his paper. He crawled on the floor. He pestered his classmates. He didn't solve the problems. He just didn't care.

The other students with me knew how to do the problems. I told them to do the worksheet on their own, and ask me if they had questions. They finished the worksheet in five minutes. I turned to the boy. He was running around the room. "Come on over here." I said, "We're going to work on the white board."

I wrote the first problem on the board, and handed him the marker. He got quiet. He didn't know how to do the problem. He had no idea. No clue. He didn't even know what the problem was asking. He didn't know how to start. He just really didn't understand math. And he couldn't stay focused long enough to learn it.

Over the next hour, we worked together on ten problems. I drew pictures, I helped him count on his fingers, I made sound effects, I turned erasing the board between problems a game (countdown: 5, 4, 3, 2, 1!), I gave high fives, I told some jokes, I pushed him on, I pretended my hands were a scale and taught him that if he put the same number of markers in each hand they were still balanced (just like an equation). He listened intently. He was trying to learn.

I constantly fought the attention battle. He was distracted by the cobweb in the corner of the room, the sound of kids playing outside, even his own shoe. His gaze was constantly floating away from the numbers I had written so largely on the board directly in front of him. I picked up his hand and used his own pointer finger to touch each number as we said it out loud. I helped him count on his fingers when we added.

We worked intently, minute by minute. My mind was racing, searching for more ideas to teach him in a way that would help him, even a little.

He understood. HE UNDERSTOOD! He completed all ten problems, and he understood each one. We returned to the classroom. The rest of his classmates had already left. They finished in a matter of minutes, no doubt.

He handed in his paper. I told him I was SO proud of him and couldn't wait to see him next week. He smiled at me and left the room.

I put on my parka and walked out into the cold rain and bitter wind, but my heart was warm. It was so warm that I felt it radiating throughout every inch of my body, and I couldn't stop my entire face from beaming as I walked.

I had to blink hard to fight back tears.

Smiling at its best.

I spent last night at the library working on a research paper. Not my preferred method to pass a beautiful August evening. I was walking across campus to the library just as dusk set in, thinking about my day and my life: the things that are going great, the things that are going not-so-great, and everything in between.

As I was walking, I noticed a man walking beside me.

He was Hispanic and very short, probably no taller than five feet, wearing a crisp red gingham shirt. He was probably about thirty-five. And he was smiling. He had the most sincere, happy smile I think I've seen in years brightening his entire face.

So I smiled back.

He said in a very heavy accent, "What a nice night it is!"

"Yeah, it really is!" I said. We talked about the weather a bit.

"Where are you from?" he asked.

"Las Vegas."

"Ohhhh! Nevada!!! Wow!!" he said in strained English, his cute smile getting even bigger.

"Yeah! Where are you from?"

"Peru."

"Wow, that's really cool!" I said, and we talked about Peru for a minute.

"How long have you been here?" my new friend asked as we walked.

"Two years," I answered.

"Ahh! You're twenty?!? How exciting!!" he asked with great energy.

"Yeah!" I said, feeling kind of excited for myself about being twenty. His joy was contagious.

"When is your birthday!??!" he asked, happily as ever.

"February."

"Wow! So SOON! So exciting!!" he said. I couldn't help but burst out laughing at his eagerness that my birthday was seven months away. He laughed too.

We kept walking and talking, and he told me that he is at BYU for a few months to learn English, and that he owns an insurance company in Peru. I think he was talking to me to practice his English. I could mostly understand him, but some words were swallowed up in his heavy Peruvian accent, and I couldn't comprehend. He kept the huge grin on his face the whole time we talked. He was a happy man.

He asked about my major and I told him that I'm studying elementary education-- to be a teacher. He said, "Ohhh wow!!! Good luck with the kids!!"

We walked all the way into the library together and when we came to the stairs I said, "It was so nice meeting you! Your English sounds great!"

He said, "Thanks! Your English sounds great too!"

He made me so happy to be twenty, happy to be at BYU, happy to live in America, and happy to be me.

I couldn't stop smiling.

The Invention of Chocolate Chip Cookies.

The year was 1930, and Ruth Wakefield and her husband owned the Toll House Inn, a rest stop serving travelers along Route 18 in Massachusetts. The restaurant was fairly new, and she was very busy as the co-owner, manager and cook.

Ruth Wakefield

One day, Ruth was making some chocolate-butter drop cookies. The recipe called for melted chocolate mixed into the batter, but Ruth was in a hurry. She quickly broke some chocolate into chunks and stirred them into the dough, hoping the chocolate would melt evenly as the cookies baked. But they didn't. She pulled out a pan of butter cookies scattered with chunks of chocolate... they were ruined!

But were they? Ruth tasted them. Her customers tasted them. They were amazing!

And thus, the chocolate chip cookie was invented.

I am definitely making these tomorrow.

In no time at all, Ruth's chocolate chip cookies were famous in her area, and the Nestle candy company came out to see what all the fuss was about. They decided to make special chocolate chips especially for baking the cookies, and bought the rights to her recipe. To this day, Ruth Wakefield's recipe is printed on the back of each bag of Nestle chocolate chips for you and me to bake delicious cookies!

This is what I learned yesterday while reading the book "Girls Think of Everything," by Catherine Thimmesh. I've been reading children's books like crazy for my children's literature class, and it has completely changed my perspective. I absolutely can't wait to be an elementary school teacher, because it means always learning and being curious with my students.

Remember when you were a child, how you had questions about everything? You wondered how things came about and why things were the way they were? I know I did. But once you grow up, you stop wondering so much. You don't ask questions as often, and learning becomes boring instead of fun.

Maybe we should all awaken our curiosity about the world more often. Maybe its time to begin wondering again. Maybe its good to ask questions.

Its amazing to think of all the little things we don't know, and it really is fun to learn new things. Even if its just learning about chocolate chip cookies.

I love my major.

Children's poetry is awesome. Some of it is funny, some of it is sad, some of it is breath-taking and beautiful.

This one is just silly and I laugh every time I read it. Enjoy!

Rover
by Eve Merriam

Rover is a wonder dog,
a marvelous pup.
Other dogs roll over,
other dogs sit up.

Other dogs pull your leg
to go for a walk,
but Rover is special:
Rover can talk.

If you don’t believe me,
here’s the proof.
What goes over the ceiling?
Roof, says Rover,
roof, roof, roof.

If you find that isn’t
proof enough,
what’s the opposite of smooth?
Rough, says Rover
rough, rough, rough.


And this one, is so beautiful to me. I hope you like it too.

This Book is Mine
by Mayra Cohn Livingston

This book is mine.
I checked it out.
I read it
and found all about
another me
who lived before,
who opened up
a magic door,
who sailed an ocean,
flew a plane,
a me
I never could explain
until I found myself
within a story
where
I’ve always
been.

Things that are making me happy right now:

-Children's poetry.
-Being finished with my children's poetry project early! (What?! You can finish projects early and not be sprinting to print them out mere minutes before they are due? Unheard of. For me. )
-The SUN is out today!! Also unheard of, in Provo. I have to pinch myself so I know I'm not dreaming!
-The WEEKEND! I'm headed to my friends house and I can't wait!

What are you happy about today?

Hello Little Children....

On Sunday I taught the six year old primary class. I'm not gonna lie. I was pretty nervous at first.

My senior year of high school, I volunteered for the Learning for Life program. I taught a first grade class for a half hour every Monday afternoon. I LOVED IT.

They called me Miss Amy. I loved being at the front of the room and trying to command their short attention spans. I loved their genuine expressions and their funny comments, and their little six year old innocence. I learned a LOT from the teacher, Ms. K. She was so pro at keeping the class in control. Even when I wasn't doing a very good job, she wouldn't step in unless I asked her, and then she would just tell me what to do.

It made me decide I wanted to be a teacher. A good teacher. The kind of teacher who always has control of her class. Who really cares about her students and instills in them curiosity and excitement for learning about the world.

I am so inspiring

This year as I started all my prerequisites for elementary ed, I began to seriously doubt that I wanted to be a teacher. First of all, EVERYONE seems to be in elementary ed. Well not everyone. But somehow it seemed whenever I told someone that they'd say, "Hey me too!" And also, teaching doesn't always get a ton of respect.

Today in Primary, I was reminded why I want to teach. I love it! And I feel that same desire to be an elementary ed major once again. Which is good because I'm starting classes again in two weeks!

Well, to be honest, I only had 3 really good kids in my Primary class, so even if I hadn't done much it would have been fine. But I really tried to keep it together, and to apply the teaching strategies my mom taught me. By the end of the class, they actually listened to me and obeyed everything I asked them to do right away. I love learning how to motivate kids into wanting to choose good behavior. I can't wait to learn all about the way children think and how to work with them! Its so exciting to me!

Hopefully I'll look this hot when I'm a teacher!

The best part was the actual teaching. Its weird because I am terrified of speaking in front of adults, but in front of kids I feel really comfortable. I strayed from what I planned and went with the flow. I had all boys in my class, so I started telling cool stories about good guys and bad guys with voices and hand motions and related it to the lesson. I don't know where it came from! But they were so into it! I told a story from the lesson manual about chickens, and I pretended like I was an angry chicken, flapping my wings and making chicken noises. It was awesome.

I was just glad no one walked in on my class. It would have been a little startling I'm sure.

The story was about a little boy visiting his grandma on a farm. His grandma told him not to touch the baby chicks, but he did anyway and got pecked by a chicken. So then his grandma told him again not to touch baby birds. Then he went and tried to touch a baby goose. The big mama goose started hissing at him so he ran away. The moral of the story was that "he finally learned to obey his grandma." But to me, it wasn't so much obedience as being terrified of a large, angry goose ready to attack. But that's just me.

My blog is so weird.

It was just fun to pretend I was an angry goose.

Oh, and all that reaffirming of my career choice and such was good too.