A busy day for everyone culminates in us arriving separately at home after seven, two hours after we normally eat dinner. After school, a long meeting, and a visit with Nana (out of the hospital and back in rehab — hurrah!), I’d stopped for something for us to eat; after work, shuttling the Girl to choir practice while taking the Boy shopping, running the Boy to basketball practice after dropping the Girl off at volleyball practice, then picking everyone up, K arrived shortly after.
As we ate, the kids and I decided that K’s plan for the rest of the evening was flawed.
“I’ll put away all the groceries and then go to bed if you’ll put the Boy to bed.”
“Nope. I’ll put away the groceries while you take a hot bath, and then I’ll put the Boy to bed while you go to bed yourself.” L and E agreed — Mama needed to call it a day. As I was bustling about the kitchen, I remembered it was garbage night.
“L, take the garbage and recycling out,” I said, expecting a little fussing.
“Okay.” Nothing more.
She came back in, a little whiny, and said, “E always takes out one of them. Can he take out the recycling? I’ll go with him.”
“No, sweetie, it’s late. Just do a little more than you have to.”
“Oh, okay.” Nothing more.
From this, a simple inference: our daughter really is growing up. She’s not just sprouting vertically (she’s almost 5’4″ now); she’s not just developing into a young woman; she’s maturing. With my nose pressed to the ever-present every day, I forget that sometimes. It escapes me.
While all this was going on, the Boy had started his homework.
“What are you working on tonight?” I asked him.
“Inferring. We learned it today.”
As an English teacher, I’ve been working on the Boy’s (and the Girl’s) inferring skills for years. I taught him the word; he must have forgotten. The teacher did a better job today. “What’s that?” I asked.
“Making a good guess.”
Not a bad definition. I usually tell my students it’s “making a reasonable guess based on evidence.”
And there you might notice something: I teach eighth grade; my son is in first grade. Am I really teaching inferring again? Well, I’m not teaching inferring — they know what it is. But we’re still practicing it. Like mad. Especially (really, that should read “solely”) with my lower-achieving students. I give them a text like this:
Every day after work Paul took his muddy boots off on the steps of the front porch. Alice would have a fit if the boots made it so far as the welcome mat. He then took off his dusty overalls and threw them into a plastic garbage bag; Alice left a new garbage bag tied to the porch railing for him every morning. On his way in the house, he dropped the garbage bag off at the washing machine and went straight up the stairs to the shower as he was instructed. He would eat dinner with her after he was “presentable,” as Alice had often said.
I then ask a question: What type of job does Paul do? How do you know this? I have the students back up their answers with three specific pieces of evidence from the text, then explain how that evidence is evidence. A good student response (an actual student response) looks like this:
Paul is a farmer.I know this because he is wearing muddy boots. Wearing muddy boots is evidence that he is a farmer because if he were to work in an office or inside he wouldn’t have muddy boots. Also, he is wearing overalls in which he would not have been wearing if he was working inside. Finally, Paul’s overalls are dusty and most farmers work a lot outside so he must have gotten dirty from working outside.
So I applied the same thing to the Boy’s work. The same thing — a text followed by a question:
Everyone was singing for Mark. He blew out his candles. He had many presents. It was his special day. What special day was it?
E read the text and said, “It’s his birthday!”
“How do you know this?” I prodded.
“Because he got presents.”
“But we get presents at Christmas as well. How do you know it’s not Christmas?” He looked stumped for a moment, so I told him what I tell my own students: “Go back to the text. Find something in the text that shows it’s not Christmas.”
He read a while, thought a while, then said with a smile, “Because it says it’s his special day, not everyone’s special day. Christmas is everyone’s special day.”
I thought he’d pick up on the candles. That’s the more obvious piece of evidence. He went the more subtle route.
“That’s great. A very good observation. Now, can you find a third piece of evidence?”
Again, he looked, read, thought. “The candles. You don’t blow out candles on Christmas.”
After a tiring day, what a perfect ending.