The Shoelace Fairy

It made sense, after a while, to sit on the ground.  Prince Elementary School is haunted by a demented Shoelace Fairy; it's the only reason that every third child has at least one shoestring dangling.

Tying shoes is a skill not mastered by many kindergarten kids.  The one who could create the knot and twist the bunny ears and pull it all tight did so with quiet concentration and a self-satisfied look as I narrated every step.  Her classmates were fascinated by her demonstration, and then they lined up in front of Grandma so that I could tie their shoes.

Sitting, we were nearly at eye level.  Their shoes were pink and camouflage and shiny and lit up and those who had velcro closures stood in line anyway, just to show me their shoes.  Admiration finished, we moved on to the speedy and abridged version of Caps For Sale, the book I was toting.  Giggling, they ran away, making way for a bigger boy to ask me to start from the beginning.  I did, reading every word until he shook his head, emphatically requesting that I do it like before, FAST!
So, I did.

I read it correctly for Story Time in the third of the five kindergarten classrooms I'll visit. The children sat on the rug, I sat in the teacher's chair, and the teacher sat among the kids.  The story became a participatory experience, with all my little monkeys on the carpet mimicked the monkeys the book, shaking their fists and stamping their feet and tsk tsk tsking away.

They lined up to receive their stickers - one for the student and one for the teacher.  By the end of the line, Ms Boyd's flowing tunic top was covered in tiny round penguin stickers, each one applied by a tiny hand.  There were many thank you's and I love you's and too many smiles to count.

This is the best elixir, denizens.