"You won't believe what happened at school today," my 6th grade daughter dramatically initiated, plopping her sweet self on the stool in the kitchen. These are my favorite moments, when stories are shared and lessons are learned; and she recounts everything as theatrically as if she were center stage in a Broadway play.
But I will spare you the agony of enduring an 11 year-old girl's attempt to hit her entire day's word quota in one conversation. I will mercifully give you the abbreviated version.
At the FCA (Fellowship of Christian Athletes) meeting during 7th period, the 6th-graders were asked to stand. They did, my daughter included. It was explained to them that the leaders needed volunteers to participate in an activity. Of course, hands shot up all over the room. (Sixth graders have not yet fully entered into adolescent apathy. They are as willing as sheep.)
"I wanted them to pick me so bad, Mama," my girl confessed, and she showed me how she waved her hand, shaking it like she was trying to fling a leech free. To her great disappointment, she was not selected. One of her best friends was.
As the group of privileged students assembled at the front of the room, they were instructed to each remove a sock, which they did. An opened bottle of Pepsi was placed in front of each student. The students were next told to stretch their removed sock over the top of their bottle of Pepsi.
At this juncture, my daughter paused in her recount to inform me, "I'm so glad I didn't get picked."
Knowing my daughter, her toenails probably needed cutting and she was likely, out of laziness, wearing the same socks she wore the day before and her foot odor probably gave it away. So, I could see how she was relieved.
"It was so gro-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-sssss!" she squealed, making me picture all of those other children's nasty toes and grimy socks. "They had to drink it! Through their socks! They drank a Pepsi through their socks!"
"O-o-o-o-o-o-oh, disgusting!" I agreed. "I'm so glad you weren't picked."
We're from Georgia for heaven's sake, the home of Coca Cola. We wouldn't even drink a Pepsi through two sweaty socks.
But I will spare you the agony of enduring an 11 year-old girl's attempt to hit her entire day's word quota in one conversation. I will mercifully give you the abbreviated version.
At the FCA (Fellowship of Christian Athletes) meeting during 7th period, the 6th-graders were asked to stand. They did, my daughter included. It was explained to them that the leaders needed volunteers to participate in an activity. Of course, hands shot up all over the room. (Sixth graders have not yet fully entered into adolescent apathy. They are as willing as sheep.)
"I wanted them to pick me so bad, Mama," my girl confessed, and she showed me how she waved her hand, shaking it like she was trying to fling a leech free. To her great disappointment, she was not selected. One of her best friends was.
As the group of privileged students assembled at the front of the room, they were instructed to each remove a sock, which they did. An opened bottle of Pepsi was placed in front of each student. The students were next told to stretch their removed sock over the top of their bottle of Pepsi.
At this juncture, my daughter paused in her recount to inform me, "I'm so glad I didn't get picked."
Knowing my daughter, her toenails probably needed cutting and she was likely, out of laziness, wearing the same socks she wore the day before and her foot odor probably gave it away. So, I could see how she was relieved.
"It was so gro-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-sssss!" she squealed, making me picture all of those other children's nasty toes and grimy socks. "They had to drink it! Through their socks! They drank a Pepsi through their socks!"
"O-o-o-o-o-o-oh, disgusting!" I agreed. "I'm so glad you weren't picked."
We're from Georgia for heaven's sake, the home of Coca Cola. We wouldn't even drink a Pepsi through two sweaty socks.
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2 comments:
Yuck, yuck, double yuck!
That is disgusting!
I hail from the Carolinas and the birthplace of Pepsi - I wouldn't drink either through a clean sock.
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