They read the story. (I think a few different versions.) They had a readers theater about the story. They counted beans for math. Then for science, they wrapped a bean seed in a paper towel to see if it would grow. They made predictions and all that TK jazz. I'm not the curriculum director so I am not privy to all that occurred.
The point is they sprouted bean seeds. Then they planted the little bean sprouts. Then they sent them home with the kids. When it came home it had two leaves and was a little taller than the popsicle stick it was tied to.
The little beanstalk has lived on our window sill for a few weeks now and last night husband and I transplanted it to the yard.
And within ten minutes of going outside to play, M had bent the poor little beanstalk in half. I don't think she meant to? It wasn't quite the same as when she picks flowers. (Which is total and absolute destruction.) The result was not great, however.
It may survive. I tied it up and hopefully, it will appreciate being out of the bottom of a Dasani bottle and in loads of dirt. It rained last night. And I watered it this morning. While I recognize that I am not going to get to climb this beanstalk, I don't want it to just die on me. Maybe I should go out there and sing Tubthumping to it? (The I get knocked down, but I get up again part. Not the booze part.)
Look at the little popsicle stick at the bottom. Look at how far it's come!
This could be a sweet post about how sometimes God has to knock you down so you grow stronger or something metaphorical or whatever. But no. It really is just a reminder that 3-year-olds are among the most destructive beings without even trying.
I'm pretty sure she didn't mean it. Oh well.
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