They'll call me freedom

Last week, my class had to create a piece of artwork for the GATE Art Gallery (which is aptly described with the acronym GAG). Getting ten six-year-olds to all sit in chairs at the same time is a feat; getting them to all work together on an art project is nothing short of a miracle.

My new coteacher went to school for design, so she's very artsy. I asked her two weeks ago for ideas, and she said whatever I did would be fine. I asked her a week and a half ago for ideas, and she said whatever I did would be fine. I asked her a week ago for ideas, and she said whatever I did would be fine. With her full support behind me, I designed a project and began to execute its creation.

I spent an hour having the kids tear up paper for my "collage" before my coteacher finally realized what I was doing. She looked at it like you would look at a homemade pillow made by a preschooler out of your favorite dress; you appreciate the creativity and thoughtfulness, but it's really quite a train wreck.

Therefore, when she took over, I didn't mind in the slightest. If a picture is worth a thousand words, I'd rather write you four thousand words to get out of drawing the picture. My coteacher took over trying to salvage the project I had started, and I did what I do best: entertained the kids with a dance party.

I usually try to play things I know the kids have heard before, but sometimes they surprise me by knowing pretty obscure songs. This time, I was beyond delighted.

Clearly, they're singing this:

I couldn't love these kids more if they pooped sunshine.