None of my kids can spell. Busboy is far and away the least pathetic, but even he comes up with "creative" spellings more often than the child of an editor should.
As if I need one more reason to feel like a failure as a mother.
We got a letter from daltonman. It contained very little information, other than the fact that the MTC cafeteria served them "chicken coord on bleau." (This after I did a special FHE lesson on How to Write and Answer a Letter.) I know you want me to give him a break because it's French, but this is just one symptom of a chronic problem, friends.
When we're sitting around the table and someone says, "I can't eat no more," it just about kills me. And then I just about kill the person that says it. A person can only take so much. Actually, I think this has only happened once or twice. These are not kids that learn lessons quickly, but I guess I make my point extra emphatically when The Grammar is compromised. I have mostly erased the memory from my mind, but I vaguely remember flames shooting out of my eyes.
The real fun starts when Lola asks daltonman how to spell a word. I listen for a few seconds, and then I go into convulsions and have to be physically restrained.
Let me put this into perspective for you so you can understand the pain. It's kind of like a football-loving, hunting-enthusiast, car mechanic dad having a son that turns out to be gay.
4 comments:
I love the FHE lesson on how to write and answer a letter. That's brilliant! And yet so sad that we need to have lessons like that, but at least you're on top of it.
Coord on bleau. That's great. It sounds like a type of French corduroy pants.
In a discussion on immigration issues in a high school class a student stated his opinion, "I don't think we should let anyone into this country unless they talk American good."
During my mission, I would spend my whole hour of email time furiously typing a letter to my parents to let them know absolutely everything that went on during the week. So much so that, I am pretty sure, my dad had to set aside time each week as his letter-reading time. I think I might have actually received a couple complaints about the flood of information I sent home. But one family friend took a copy of one of my emails home and sent it to his brother on a mission and said, "This is what Cicada writes home every week. Learn from her example."
I remember, the first letter I wrote from the MTC was about 4 pages, front and back, in the tiniest of writing. It felt like I'd been at the MTC forever. And then I realized that I hadn't actually been there a full 24 hours yet.
Let me know if you want me to send him my mission letters as an example. I can drop the box off at the MTC this weekend.
These two facts exist: I like chicken cordon bleu, and none of the food I remember at the MTC resembled it in the least. Forgive me for being critical, but MTC food was good preparation for the average missionary companion's cooking. "Coord on bleau" seems a more likely menu item there than "cordon bleu."
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