Yesterday afternoon I went up to my kids’ elementary school for an assembly. One by one, each grade took the stage and sang a couple of numbers, starting with the first graders and ending with the about-to-graduate fifth graders.

What is it about children singing? They could be singing, oh, I don’t know, “Fat Bottomed Girls,” and I’d probably cry. And when it’s “The Happy Wanderer,” sung by second graders (including my daughter), who chose that song themselves, well, I’m a goner. Mush ain’t in it.

If the pure innocent sound of seven-year-old voices rising up in song isn’t enough for you, add this to the picture: they sang well. The music teacher at our school is amazing, a jewel in the crown of the Ann Arbor Public Schools. By the time these kids graduate they know the difference between their head voice and their chest voice, they can read music, they can sing in four-part harmony. Yeah, the fifth graders sang a round in four parts, a capella, in a minor key, with large intervals and some dissonance. Sang it beautifully.

But I’m not done, oh no. The assembly finished off with a slide show compiled of the baby pictures and current pictures of the graduating fifth graders (among them, my son). And while the slide show played, the fifth graders sang a medley of tear jerkers that included “School Days” and “You Must Have Been a Beautiful Baby.” The only thing that saved me at all during this was the peals of laughter from the kids as each drooling toothless infant was revealed to be Eddie or Lizzie or, ha ha, the school principal.

All this by way of explanation for why, when my fifth-grader Joey arrived home with two of his buddies in tow and a request that they stay for dinner, all I could say was yes.

Voices: Part Two

Joey eats, sleeps, and breathes Dungeons & Dragons. It’s been a major source of frustration to him that none of his friends at school are into it. After about a year of failed attempts he finally managed to get his two buddies, Drew and Cedric, reasonably proficient at the game, and yesterday afternoon they had their first real dungeon-crawl. They played at the kitchen table, and I made a point of keeping myself busy in the kitchen too, so I could listen in. Oh, you couldn’t buy that kind of entertainment!

Drew was playing a paladin, which, by the way, he insisted on pronouncing with the accent on the second syllable. At one point they captured an orc. They tried to interrogate him (I wish you could have heard Dungeon Master Joey’s fake cockney accent as he played the orc) but the orc prevaricated. Drew then declared he was going to kill it, and I could not resist stirring things up a bit.

“What?” I interjected. “You’re a lawful good paladin and you’re just going to kill a poor helpless tied-up creature? That’s not right!”

Drew looked crestfallen for a moment, but then he brightened. “Ok, I won’t kill it. Cedric, you kill it.”

“But that’s just as bad,” I sputtered. Joey agreed, and Drew soon bowed under the joint force of our righteous indignation.

“I shoulda been a church inquisitor,” I heard Drew mutter in disgust.

Great idea, huh? It’s extremely educational. Not only are they are learning the elements of cookery — chopping onions, pressing garlic, browning beef, opening cans — but they are also learning their way around our kitchen. They know where we keep the spatulas. They know how to operate the oven and microwave. They know that the spices are in (of course) alphabetical order. As well, they have the satisfaction of increased independence. Joey, in particular, is getting a way bigger kick out of this than I ever imagined he would.

Aside: last Tuesday, as we were sitting down to eat the burgers he’d grilled, Joey worried that we’d compliment his cooking just to be nice, because he was still learning. I told him that’s the host’s perennial dilemma and it has nothing to do with his lack of experience. People always compliment the food as a way of thanking the chef for his hard work. (That is to say, some people do. Have you noticed that while some people — like me — think it’s good manners to talk all about the food while they’re eating it, praising the chef, asking about the recipe, and so forth, others apparently think you should say nothing at all. Every year we have Christmas dinner at the home of Steve’s aunt, who is a fabulous cook, really fabulous, and personally I just don’t understand how all those relatives can just sit there and talk about everything else but the food. Must be a Dutch Calvinist thing.)

Back to Home Ec: right now this project is extremely labor-intensive, especially with Lena. I am very nervous about the knives and the gas stove and all that stuff. Her hands just aren’t big and strong enough for some tasks, and I end up doing a lot of it for her. I have high hopes, however, that the day will come when I can just sit back and let them take over in the kitchen.

Another drawback, I’ve discovered, is that allowing the kids to plan the menu could result in some weird meals. Last Tuesday one of the side dishes to go with the burgers was a great big bowl of heavily sugared (though neatly trimmed) strawberries.

And I know what you’re wondering. The answer is, so far this project has had NO EFFECT WHATSOEVER on the carping.

Calvinism opposed organic social organization in the fiscal-monopolistic form which it assumed in Anglicanism under the Stuarts, especially in the conceptions of Laud, this alliance of Church and State with the monopolists on the basis of a Christian-social ethical foundation.

Oh, my poor hubby! I’m so glad I’m not in college any more!