Alina's Adventures

Sir Eustace, my sports trophy.

Friday flew straight in the face of every well-laid plan. But it helps to explain why my "home-making" posts are far and few between.

By the time Max and Ellie got back after lunch, the girls had each invented the most hair-curling cries for their fabric baby dolls. When I asked them if I could breastfeed their babies, Prophet refused.

"They're not hungry, mom," she snapped, "They just like to cry. A LOT."

Little B. and Gnome smiled sheepishly. Then Gnome's baby began shrieking as if a small dragon had a baby toe between its long, shiny teeth. "See?" smirked Prophet, her lips compressed into a tight little line that I like to call a "smugile".

After giving myself the pronounced satisfaction of a little solitary eye-rolling, I trotted into the kitchen, where the boys were debating whether to bake banana bread or raspberry-banana bread. "Hey mom," ventured the Eldest, "I looked everywhere and I can't find my Honest Pretzels cookbook..."

"Obviously, you didn't look everywhere," I replied, keeping one ear cocked for fabric baby cries from the back of the castle.

"I did. I swear."

"But the book is clearly somewhere, so not finding the book means you failed to look everywhere because you may have looked in many places while not looking in the place known as somewhere- which is, in fact, a place BECAUSE...." I raised my voice and caught my breath, "your book still exists as a form or familiar recognizable physical MATTER." 

"Mom doesn't like to help me find things," the Eldest said in an aside to Ellie. "She thinks I should find things for myself." Ellie nodded. The boys looked amused.

They shrugged in unison as I set off (rather huffily) in search of the Eldest's cookbook. Twenty minutes later, with "somewhere" feeling more and more like elsewhere, I happened upon a gigantic cockroach, spread on his back, legs curled towards the ceiling. Since he was obviously deceased, I did the only thing that made sense given the circumstances, namely, selected a swatch of linen from the fabric bin and mounted Sir Eustace into a frame for the dining room wall. 

As I hammered a nail into the wall to display our new family friend, Ellie saw it and started laughing. He loved Sir Eustace. In turn, I discovered that Sir Eustace had minimized the cost of admitting I couldn't find the cookbook either- and maybe "somewhere" was actually "nowhere", immaterial.

The Eldest just grinned and said, "That's cool, mom," when I passed over a printed recipe for banana-raspberry bread.

"Actually," I wanted to say, "Cool is your non-shaming response to my huffiness". But I didn't say it. Maybe a residue of huffiness lingered.

As the Eldest prepared his ingredients and Ellie warmed the oven, I decided to make a snack for the crying baby dolls and the five uber-cool kids in the castle. "I'm going to make some microwave popcorn," I said, hoping it sounded official. Ellie watched as I put a fabric napkin under the popcorn bag and set the timer.

"Why'd you put that napkin in there?" Ellie asked. 

"Because the spinny-dish-thingamabob is broken and the popcorn will burn on the bottom if I don't put something under it and we don't really have paper napkins..."

"Only for guests," appended the Eldest, as he mashed bananas with the meat-grinder.

I set the timer for the minimum popping time and prepared to listen for the promised "popping intervals". It took all of forty seconds for the microwave to begin smoking furiously, filling the tiny kitchen with smoke and the familiar odor of burning. Something wasn't right. When the girls dashed into the kitchen screaming "Fire! Fire!", Ellie and the Eldest immediately demonstrated proper bomb-shelter skills by throwing themselves on the floor and covering their heads with their arms. 

At this point, we torn between cracking up and dealing with the current disaster. Somehow, we managed to alternate between both fairly evenly.

Ellie found a fan in the sewing room, and set it up to blow the air away. Prophet announced the rule that "no one opens the microwave door until daddy comes him". This gave her the chance to indulge in her favorite hobby of all, namely, the enforcement of very particular, legalistic rules. I try not to worry so much about whether this rigidity will condemn her to life as a card-carrying Republican. There are other things to think about. Like the smoke.

Meanwhile, the Eldest went on baking as if nothing had happened, while Ellie theorized about the cause of the burning. "You know, it's an urban myth that aluminum blows up microwaves," he said in his most serious voice. He had the floor. "Because, actually, all it does if you put it in the microwave is make a lot of smoke- I mean, A LOT of smoke, kind of like that", he said, pointing towards the closed microwave door. 

Could these kids be any cooler? I mean, here they are, juggling crisis-management, intricate baking recipes, baby dolls that cry no matter what you do to soothe them,  and then babysitting a mom who can't even pop microwave popcorn without setting fires. Someone give these kids a gold medal.

Needless to say, an hour later, the kitchen still reeked of smoke but we snacked ourselves silly anyway, under the shadow of a somber Sir Eustace, the delicious taste of banana-raspberry bread in our mouths. 

It was Tiffany who finally made sense of the whole event- "I like it," she said with reference to the framed Sir Eustace, adding that it made a great "sports trophy". Granted, Sir Eustace was deceased when I found him, so he was more like a roadkill trophy than a sports trophy, but roadkill trophy fails to capture the budding affection (the sentiment that led me to offer Eustace the token of a "Sir").

What Tiffany didn't know, however, was that our microwave held within it a napkin lined with metallic strips, still smoldering (eventually, charred) as a result of my kitchen shenanigans.

"Whatever," I overheard Prophet telling Little B., a sigh heavy in her voice- "I guess that's why Dad always tells Mom not to worry about doing any of that cooking." 

Seeing constellations as a way of remembering history: Following the drinking gourd.

Scroll down for this free printable download.

The Eldest's study of the Civil War led us through the Underground Railroad earlier this week. It's a topic I love to explore because it demonstrates how the actions of a few determined, good people made a difference in the lives of those African-Americans who ran from slavery. 

People trying to escape slavery could not afford to ask most Americans how to get North. Asking directions in a society that held no laws to protect slaves was a risk that usually led to getting caught. The man or woman on the run cannot rely on the friendliness of common folks. Instead, the slaves fleeing towards freedom devised clues and secret codes to help them find the direction of "North" on their journey.

One clue was that moss tends to grow on the North side of trees. So, in long excursions through wooded areas, they could look to the trees to determine their direction.

Out in the fields and plains, however, there were few trees to consult. In treeless areas, these brave individuals consulted the skies. They knew that migrating birds flew north in the summer- so they followed the large groups of birds heading north. They also knew of a star called the "North Star", frequently called "Polaris" in astronomy books and charts. 

Unlike other stars, the North Star never changes position. It always points to the north. If they could find a way to remember how it pointed North, then they could use the North Star as a guide in unwooded areas.

An easy way to remember the North Star's location was by looking for the "drinking gourd". Since many used hollowed-out gourds to dip and drink water, the Big Dipper resembled a drinking gourd to them. Two stars on the edge of the gourd always point to the North Star. By finding the “drinking gourd” in the sky, people traveling at night could always find the North Star.

Escaping slaves like Harriet Tubman, James Pennington, and Josiah Henson probably followed the Drinking Gourd to freedom. The song "Follow the Drinking Gourd" helped keep the memories and instructions of how to follow the invisible and very secret Underground Railroad alive for slaves in the South. The topic was such a neat one that the Eldest played the song on the pinao as I sang the lyrics in a pajama-attired evening performance for all. Then we set out to seek the Drinking Gourd itself on the front lawn. Even Gnome spotted the North Star in the gourd!

Drinking Gourd sheet music (PDF)

Follow the Drinking Gourd (PDF)  

FIND THE DRINKING GOURD ACTIVITY To find the North Star, begin by looking for the Big Dipper constellation. Use the two small stars that form the edge of the cup away from the handle. Follow the line these two stars create to find the North Star.

I like to imagine that someday, far in the future, the kids will be stargazing as their thoughts inevitably return to the many African-Americans who dared follow the drinking gourd in the hopes of finding freedom from the injustice and horror of slavery. These are the stories in the stars- if we only agree to see them.

ADDITIONAL RESOURCES

Follow the Drinking Gourd, a website about the history of the song and motif
Follow the Drinking Gourd video sing-along (Sing An American Story)

How to deal with emerging bullying behavior in a homeschooling home.

We've been witnessing a few bullying behaviors here in the castle- and there's nothing quite as painful to watch as little people using cruelty as a means of motivating one another. It's a form of slow torture for those who aren't content with a social darwinist approach to life. So, tonight, the King and I called a castle meeting to try and sort through a few things with our budding bullies.

One of my favorite free resources for castle meetings is the LifeTree Learning Systems Pax Curricula. A yearlong learning program enables you to teach kids how to make compassionate choices through activities, role-play, games, and empathy-building exercises. We use it for all our kids- and I think the little Gnome gets quite a bit out of it, even if the concepts can be a little abstract at times.

“Peace, according to Montessori philosophy, does not mean weakness, and it does not mean the simple absence of war. It means inner harmony and strong individuality, a full participation in community life, responsiveness to the world, and stewardship of its resources. It means respect for human dignity and diversity, and due diligence in protecting and supporting the rights of all. It is to this definition of peace that we dedicate our most passionate efforts.” 

Tonight, we're going to focus on our imaginary friend, Wendy, who just can't seem to be happy no matter how many things she accrues and manages to take from others. Unlike her friend, William, who can find so many wonderful ways to play with a few sticks, Wendy finds herself angry at others for her own inability to enjoy all the things she has.  She takes to picking on William- demanding his stick and throwing a tantrum when he won't give it to her. She calls him "stupid" and tells him that she hates him and that he is "disgusting".

No matter how much she gets, Wendy always wants more. And Wendy loves to talk about other people- there are so many people she "doesn't like". It's hard not to wonder if there is anything in the world Wendy does like. Selfish behavior aside, it's obvious Wendy doesn't like herself very much. 

I can't wait to see how the kids think we can help Wendy find a way to enjoy what she's given. I also hope they offer a few suggestions on how to help a friend like William when he is being bullied or mistreated. Stay tuned.

Visiting a local florist to learn about flowers.

After the girls' ballet recital, I promised them something (I secretly hoped) that would be better than a rose bouquet (which I somehow forgot to purchase). Specifically, I promised them a visit to a local flower shop to pick their own favorite flower, and maybe do a little roamschooling on the side. So we took a little trip to Stephanie's Flowers, a local florist that's been around since I was a child. 

The staff was super friendly and eager to show us inside one of the four freezers where flowers were stored.

Little B. wanted to know which flower she can choose.

"Any flower that looks like it grew just for you," I told her.

Inside the fridge at Stephanie's Flowers, and colder than we'd anticipated, the girls settled on two pink blooms (for Prophet and Little B.) and one yellow bloom for the Gnome.

Then the florist let the girls pick ribbons and tissue paper for wrapping their flowers.

As she wrapped their flowers, we talked about what it means to be a florist- how flowers are chosen and combined based on their colors and textures, how a certain taste for artistry and beauty is involved in the creation of every original bouquet.

Gnome skipped with joy once she had her flower in hand.

The Eldest fell in love with a $70 orchid. I told him good love didn't cost so much.

Finally, we toured the huge inventory and the Eldest kept making a point about how it wasn't fair that he had not earned a flower and how he would dance ballet if it scored a flower for him and that what he wanted most was a flower after his next piano recital, preferably an orchid he could plant and so on...

We are always grateful to local businesses that allow us to learn by visiting and talking to others. There's nothing quite like learning by exploring.

Spittlebug crafting session degenerates into spitting contest.

After last week's spittlebug surprise, we found ourselves thinking, "Why note draw some spittlebugs- spittling- on a leaf?"

I provided a model and some watercolor pencils, along with a few leaves cut from used paper bags.

Prophet provided an inspiring variation, with lovely leaf veining.

The Eldest excelled in offering a blueprint.

Gnome and Little B. chose to explore their talents in a different fashion. They decided to hold a spitting content in honor of the "spitting bugs". Fortunately, there is only so much saliva one can spit across a room before insatiable thist kicks in and distracts you from the game. 

I never found who won the spitting bug contest. Perhaps it is just as well.

Painted faces and fresh strawberries at Homegrown Alabama.

Little B.'s free face painting from Homegrown Alabama.

I love Homegrown Alabama. The people are as locally-fresh and unfabricated as the veggies, cheeses, and craftmanship we find there.

The Eldest didn't shy away from face painting.

A few weeks ago, we went straight from ballet to the Homegrown Alabama market on the UA campus (located on the front lawn of our church). Prophet couldn't resist pointing out that we hadn't "been to church in years", by which I think she meant weeks. 

While the Eldest hunted down tomatoes, Gnome, Prophet, and Little B. hung out in the children's area in the hopes of getting as many animals painted on their faces and hands as time would permit.

I discovered a delicious new goat cheese, purchased a Left Hand soap gift for Bill's super-late birthday present, scored another bottle of Hewett's honey, and simply enjoyed being able to touch and sample local creations while the little people were otherwise occupied. 

Little B. is upset that I agree to take a picture of Prophet as well.

Then there were the strawberries....

Alabama homegrown strawberries for the taste test.

Originally, I purchased the strawberries to toss with the hearty arugula from Snow Bend's farm, but my salad plans fell apart upon our return to the castle. You see, the kids decided the weather was perfect for the succulent sweetnesss, as indicated by their boisterous parade bringing grocery-store strawberries into the backyard.

"Why not turn this into a contest?" I inquired. "Let's pit homegrown strawberries against those of Winn-Dixie. The winner receives the Coryell Castle Seal of Approval."

More cheers and merry-making, a consensus to taste-test had been established. 

The results of the taste conclusively determined that the homegrown strawberries tasted better- "more tart and tangy"- than the grocery store strawberries.

In less than five minutes, two bowls of strawberries had disappeared from the planet known to its inhabitants as Earth. Alas, my arugula-strawberry salad with goat cheese will have to wait until next week- next Thursday, to be precise.

Officially, in the overly-concise language of nonprofit mission statements:

"Homegrown Alabama is a student-led group at the University of Alabama that seeks to educate students about the value of local produce, as well as to foster partnerships between local farmers and the University of Alabama".

You can visit the Homegrown Alabama Farmers Market at the Canterbury Episcopal Chapel lawn every Thursday, April 17- October 23 from  3:00–6:00 p.m. It's a lovely segue between school and dinner- a lovely way to fill in the blanks of what should be brought to table.

Watching a luna moth emerge and dry its wings.

It was the Eldest who first spotted the bright green friend crouched in a corner of the castle exterior.

"A friendly dragon," we determined. 

Moving closer to establish the requisite rapport, we realized that our friendly dragon was actually a luna moth recently emerged from its pupa and testing its wings in real-time. Luna moths only live for a brief period of time, during which they must first spend a day allowing their fragile, splendid wings to dry.

Things began to happen very quickly- with the same intensity of being in labor, tiny movements leading to fantastic physical changes.

I called Prophet, Gnome, and Little B. to join us.

We watched the moth's fragile wings tremble with each gust of fragrant spring wind.

We studied the perfect symmetry of the lines on its back. Then discussed the shapes we could find in its thorax and abdomen.

Suddenly, the luna moth shuddered and curled into itself. When it curled back out again, two slender appendages with golden endings emerged and remained dangling.

Gnome opens the gate carefully so as not to disturb our moth friend.

When the luna moth tumbled down from its high spot on the wall, we watched with bated breath as it climbed up the side of the wooden fence to rest at the top of the gate. Then we relocated to watch the events from the other side of the fence. 

The Eldest admired the luna moth's "featherlike" antlers, which appeared to be made of perfect, super-sensitive combs.

"I can't believe it is so perfect.... and delicate," he concluded, as he stood, transfixed, by the tiny details witnessed up close, the ones we never bother to seek unless forced before us by a circumstance.

And so we sat, and watched- the little ones resorting to dirt and stones when the waiting felt too laborious. We made up poems and rhymes, which quickly turned to songs and riddles.

Four hours and several bowls of pineapple later, our luna moth friend felt ready to fly. I won't tell you which one of us cried when it finally heaved its amazing wings and fluttered away. The whole watching and waiting was intensely beautiful and awe-inspiring. I learned more about from this brief learning experience than I have learned from any textbook or media about the sublime life of the luna moth. Profoundly grateful for what Barbara Kingsolver calls the "small things". 

An early spring hike through Hurricane Creek Park.

We set out for a visit to Hurricane Creek Park, just off the Highway 216 bridge between Cottondale and Peterson. Rather than taking the awesome new PARA trails, we strolled along the stream using the old Eagle Scout trail. What we found was the commencement address of spring, sparing none of our senses.

A few years ago, a little bird named Hayes told us of the clay we could find along the banks of Hurricane Creek- a white-gray beautiful clay. Sure enough, the clay seeped from the dirt in the banks. I only wish I'd brought a bucket to collect it....

Our kids ranged in ages from 3 to 10- the youngest ones wore their own backpacks for the occasion. The unplanned presence of Pinka provided us with a four-legged mammal's perspective on the journey.

"If a rainstorm overtook you, which rocks would you use for shelter?", I asked at one point, remembering the old legends about Native Americans once find sacred spaces along the creek.

We hiked along, observing ferns, tiny buds, lichen, and any flowerings in the making.

The little ones stopped to dam and ford a slim tributary- if a slender sliver of water flowing down the side of a hill can even be called a tributary. They could have lingered for hours, pressing sticks into the miniature waterfalls and watching leaves make their way over the "rapids".

 Prophet watches her friends clamber over creekside rocks.

Creekside portraits abound.

The Eldest mistook the canebrake (or "hair cane") for bamboo. Fortunately, Amy quickly corrected him.

Resting along a bench donated by the Friends of Hurricane Creek.

Amy and I both paused to press our cheeks against the cold, mossy rocks, reminiscing about times in our pasts when only the cold, hard feel of a stone relieved the unbearable Alabama summer heat.

Gnome explains why she wants to eat something soon- and why eating acorns is something to which squirrels and Gnomes are inclined.

E. filled the sample jar with creek water.

Before we knew it, the grumble in our bellies meant water-testing time had officially arrived. Alas, we started testing without reading the instructions prior to our field tests. This means we learned much more about the importance of sampling methods than the actual water quality of the creek.

For instance, Amy found the oxygenation results rather hard to believe. When we sat down in the grass to review the how-to guide, we quickly understood that we had made the mistake of valuing the field sample itself over the rules of collection. "Isn't it better that we learn this the hard way so we can use our mistakes to better teach others?" Amy asked. It seemed to me just the right way to look at things.

Learning all about worms, with special attention to our new friend, the millipede.

Earthworms abound in the moist front-yard soil. The other day, the kids spent hours watching an earthworm worm its way around a puddle before sinking into the soil.  So we decided to play with worms.

Prophet and Little B. practiced their scissor skills by cutting out some worms and watercoloring them.

Why not use their fancy worms for the cover of our small earthworm lapbook? Enter glue stick and worm selection process.

But our worm study really took off (and shifted gears a bit) when Gnome discovered a millipede..... To talk about millipedes, it was necessary for me to utter one of those strange words that sounds like a magic spell to many little folks- namely, myriapods. Unlike our insect friends, myriapods aren't really bugs at all. 

We used our plastic crawlers to compare the two myriapod millipedes to the insect caterpillar.

Nearly 13,000 species of arthropod are classified in the Myriapoda, which means "many-legged ones." Prophet demanded to know what on earth those "arthtroscods" might be.

Arthropods are a group of creatures classified as invertebrates, or animals without a backbone. The arthropod group includes all invertebrates which have a skeleton on the outside of their bodies. The exoskeleton is made of chitin and the legs are jointed. This group is so large that it has been divided again into four sub-groups - insects, crustaceans, spiders and myriapods.

Now for a closer look at the millipede. The millipede's body has a trunk composed of individual segments known as tergites.

It didn't take long for Prophet to notice that her fake plastic worms were not millipedes at all. Indeed, the plastic worms were actually replicas of the fearsome creatures known as centipedes. For lack of a live centipede, we made do with the plastic version.

Centipede Class mini book (PDF)

Explaining why centipedes and millipedes were not in the same class of creatures was difficult. Compared to a centipede, the millipede has shorter antennae on the top of its head. It also lacks the two hooked posterior legs that appear on the head-like anus at the rear of the trunk.

Trillium Montessori has a lovely sorting game for insects and non-insects that makes good use of plastic creatures.

On the crafting side, there are endless millipede and centipede crafts to excite little hands and imaginations. Here are a few I stumbled upon- those wooden spoon millipedes are fantastic.

Centipede friendship bracelets (Friendship Bracelets)
Millipede madness (Always Outside)
Wooden spoon millipedes (Handmade Charlotte)
Curling millipede bracelet (Fusion Knots)

Snow romping on rewind with a little lesson on sibling rivalry.

During all the wild craze concerning two inches of snow, I decided to steal some quiet moments while the King took the kids on a snow romp. 

The second hand reports from the Eldest emphasized the romping-ness of the affair. Little B. explained that her clothes were "too big" for the slide, and she got stuck.

But the secondhand reports relayed by Prophet emphasized the sibling rivarly that can poke out its head even in the middle of the woods, mid-adventure.

Upon discovering the secret bench in the woods, the King wanted to get a photo. But Little B. said Gnome could not be in the photo- that she "didn't want" to be on a bench with Gnome. The King was confused because there hadn't been any fights or spats between the two, and Gnome was being her usual feisty, three-year-old self. 

"I'm going to take a picture and everybody can be in it," he told Little B. "If you don't want to be in the photo, you don't have to sit on the bench," he added, "but I'm not going to tell some people they can't be in it."

Little B. sulked and thought it over. She finally decided she wanted to be in the photo. However, she would only be in it if she could turn her back towards the Gnome. So the King snapped the first shot.

"Do you guys want to trade places on the bench?" asked the King, hoping it might soothe ruffled feathers. Little B. did not want to trade places- she stayed put. Gnome and Prophet switched. 

When Prophet reported the bench fiasco to me, I went to find Little B. and pulled her into my lap. It seemed important for her to hear what Prophet was saying, to be part of the discussion in an attempt to understand her feelings. Little B. refused to explain why she didn't want Gnome to sit next to her on the bench. At one point, she said it was because she "didn't like" Gnome.

"But you play with Gnome- just the two of you- all the time," I pointed out. "And you hug her and say how much you love to play with her...."

Little B. had a hard time finding words to express her resentment of Gnome. I wanted to validate her feelings while helping her to understand why they might be hurtful and unworthy of her focused attention. So I explained to the three girls that it is the most natural thing in the world to feel frustrated and resentful of siblings after going from being an only child to being part of a troupe of kids within a family.  

"Imagine if you went from being the baby to being one among four," I began. "Until four months ago, Little B. was the baby- she got all the attention the littlest member of the family receives. But she was also the oldest, with all the privileges of being the oldest. Don't you think that sometimes it is hard to explain why being a middle child can be frustrating?"

Prophet nodded. Little B. curled her legs in my lap. I could tell that Prophet's empathy engine was working hard; she began to explain why Little B. might be "missing" getting "all the attention the way you get when you are the only one". Prophet's thoughtfulness really came out, however, when she gave the following example:

"My favorite time with Mommy is when she takes me somewhere with just me and her. We have fun and no one is whining or crying. It makes me feel like Mommy is my best friend when I get to be alone with her."

As Little B. puts on a brave face and tries to sort through all the challenging feelings and emotions coming her way, my best hope is that her siblings will encourage her rather than resenting her in return. Sibling rivalry is one of life's greatest challenges. Learning to communicate one's secret resentments on this front can equip you to handle difficult conversations and situations. My prayers for Little B. and the girls are the beginning to every day.

An age-inclusive art lesson on value scales for kids ranging from 3 to 10.

It was only a matter of time.

You see, I'd given the Prophet her first sketchbook- and we spent a hour working on hatching and cross-hatching yesterday. Today, the sketching menu included an introductory exploration of value scales.... but Little B. and the Gnome staged a rebellion and insisted on getting their "own" sketchbooks.

"This isn't like a coloring book, girls. If you want a sketchbook, then you have to sit and sketch for extended periods of time....

"I kn-oo-ww..." sang Little B., "I wi-i-i-lllll..."

"Me too, Mommy," affirmed the Gnome, while trying to break a colored pencil in half with her teeth.

I suppressed a sigh. "Okay, I will make some extra sketchbooks and invite you two to the sketching circle with the Eldest and the Prophet BUT....." I paused for emphasis, preparing myself for the coming sternness, "If either of you begins that abominable whining sound, you will have to leave the circle right away."

Glances and giggles passed between Gnome and Little B. I wondered if this unexpected addition would diminish my ability to help the Eldest and Prophet develop an understanding of form and value. But there was no time to keep wondering- the gauntlet had been laid down. Art for all it would be.

After drafting cursory sketchbooks, I took out our seminal text- The Interactive Art Activity Book- a gift from Grandma Vicki and invited the kids to dip into it with me.

Each page was filled with tiny folds, corners, and booklets anticipating the touch of tiny hands. As we turned through the book, the excitement built up like the urge to use a restroom after drinking a large movie theatre soda.

My excitement grew with theirs.

The time had come for our spontaneous experiment.

colored pencils
paper (preferably inside a sketchbook)
a black ink pen

We discussed that a color has different shades, or "values". I realized I would need a little riddle or trick to keep them interested in a discussion of color values. So I picked up a red pencil....

ME: How many colors are in the pencil I am holding?

GNOME: One! (giggle)

LITTLE B.: (grin and giggle) One.

PROPHET: It's red. Red is one color.

Everyone agreed that there was one color in one pencil- it seemed intuitive. 

ME: What if I told you there were six colors in this pencil?

PROPHET: (scowling) That is a lie.

GNOME and LITTLE B. (giggling and nodding)

I can always count on Prophet for the black-and-white of any matter, including color theory. So I began to draw a value scale for the red colored pencil in my sketchbook- one in which I hatched and cross-hatched six values for red. The kids loved the trick. 

ME: Now it's your turn to do a little magic....

The Eldest created three value scales, using a tissue paper to smooth the edges between the transitions.

Gnome's super value scales.

For the younger ones, I created a small value scale using revealing three values at the top of their paper. Then I drew in three boxes for three different colored pencils and asked them to color the "lightest" shade, the "medium" shade, and the "darkest" shade. We focused on applying varying degrees of pressure to get the colors.

To emphasize the value in the colors, I asked them to draw a line with soft pressure, a line with medium pressure, and a line with hard pressure to the right of each value scale BEFORE they started to reveal the values. All three little ones blew my mind in their interest and dedication to getting those value scales into their sketchbooks. Little B, who tends to color lightly and hurriedly, was especially remarkable for the time and patience she put into her value scales.

They have earned the privilege of their art classes. And I'm not ashamed to admit the honor is all mine.