For years now, Sister has been mentioning that I'd make a really good pre-school teacher. (Thanks! :D) Every time I substitute at BSM's daycare, one of the ladies there says the same thing: I'm so happy working with the kids! Recently, Rut (the woman whose house we stayed at when we went to visit the community we're moving to) made the same comment. I know I love working with babies/toddlers, and, not to brag, I know I'm pretty darn good at it. But today, I came to a Decision: given the option, I absolutely don't want to babysit/work at a daycare/preschool. Those darned kids will keep leaving at the end of the year. Or be wrenched away by heartless parents who suddenly decide the kid should go with the rest of the family when they move. So sad.
(Can you tell a bunch of the ladies told me how much they're going to miss BSM? And I know how much he likes it here... Ah!)
In less depressing--but more foolish--news, I gave BSM not only a spoon, but a bowl of gvina levana at dinner tonight. Gvina Levana, if you wish to know, is an Israeli cheese roughly the consistency of sour cream. It started innocently enough, with me feeding him gvina levana with a spoon. Then BSM wanted the spoon, which was fine. Then BSM wanted to dip the spoon in the bowl of gvina levana, which was slightly more dangerous, but I figured it was good for his development. You see the slippery slope? Can you begin to understand how when he reached for the bowl of gvina levana, I just gave it to him? I hope so, because less than a minute after I took that irrevocable step, I could no longer figure out why it seemed okay at the time. Let's just say that BSM enjoyed himself spoon over fist; he, I, and the surrounding area got to know his gvina levana quite well; after dinner, BSM got an impromptu sink-bath in lieu of hand-washing; and I'm sure he'll smell like spoiled milk tomorrow.
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