A friend of mine is going through the process of finding the right preschool for her daughter. I found out she is considering the same preschool both of my girls attended and loved. As we were comparing notes I was reminded of a story. 

Gen was probably 3 years old at the time and we had just moved to Kansas from Alabama. Picture a little girl with long blond curly hair and a slight southern accent and that was Gen. She had attended preschool in  Alabama as a baby and I am convinced that the Southern women there contributed to her vocabulary being void of one syllable words. Even Grandpa Ted was Grandpa Teh-ed. Her favorite preschool teacher at her new school was Ms. Shelley and I remember her crying hysterically when she learned she was not going to get to take Ms. Shelley to kindergarten. Oh the tears! 

One day time when we picked Gen up from school Ms. Shelley told us about a visit the class had made that day to one of the local nursing homes. Gen had never been to a nursing home and so I worried that she would be a little bit freaked out by the residents. As the class walked down the hallway greeting the residents they passed a woman sleeping in her wheelchair. Gen looked at the woman then said (rather loudly), “Ms. Shelley. Is that woman dea-ad?” Stifling a giggle, the teacher quietly answered, “No sweetie. She’s just sleeping.” then hurried her down the hallway. Taking a group of filter less three year olds into an old folk’s home should be directly linked to Webster’s definition of comic relief. I wonder if I will find it as amusing when I’M the one in the chair.  (And hopefully I’m not dea-ad).