A few days ago, as I was passing back sign-out cards to a class of second graders, a boy named Frankie raised his hand. "What is it Frankie?" I asked.
He pointed to a spot on the table. "Something's on the table." I took a closer look. Something certainly was. The spot was about the size of a quarter, round, purple and looked like wet ink.
"Okay," I said. "As soon as I finish passing back these cards I'll take care of it. Meanwhile, just don't touch it!" I warned him. He nodded.
A few minutes later, the boy sitting across from Frankie -- a kid named Anthony --- called out. "Mrs. Michel, look at Frankie!" I looked. The purple spot was now a large purple smear that he'd managed to spread all over the tabletop. In addition, his top and his hands were covered in purple ink -- or whatever it was.
"Frankie! Why did you do that? I told you not to touch it."
He looked down and shrugged. "I was trying to help. " I sent him to the bathroom to wash his hands and took out my trusty bottle of Fantastik and cleaned the table. I blamed myself. I should have taken care of the purple spot before continuing with the cards. I should have known that a wet spot of purple ink was just too tempting for a seven and a half year old boy who was a little A.D.D.
It struck me later that sometimes a piece of writing can be a lot like a splot of purple ink. Sometimes the more we try to fix it, the worse we make it until we've turned the little problem into a big ugly smear.
2 comments:
*Linda points to herself with a grand gesture*
Queen of big ugly smears, here!!
I've been adding on to my ms, finding new and wonderful ways to torture Colton on his journey through insanity ... yup, just making things worse for him, and way worse for the ms. Wow. WAyy worse.
Not sure how to clean it up.
I know the feeling, Linda. Sometimes it all feels like a big purple smear. What are we, crazy?
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