As far as I know, Spectrum workbooks are generally well-regarded and considered to be at grade level.
We were out shopping this weekend and I was browsing workbooks at a bookstore. You may remember Becca's and my recent math troubles - we kicked and fought to get 3 units into Singapore 1B before throwing in the towel. Well, I picked up a Spectrum grade 1 math workbook and flipped through it. I turned to the final test, over the whole book, and realized that Becca could do all of it. She'd complain and it might take her all day to do it, but she could do all of it right now. I was shocked - I am shocked. All my garment tearing over math, and she's actually already learned at a very advanced level.
Hmmm... maybe I can chill a little.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Sunday, February 8, 2009
Baaa.
So, I was sitting in the lobby of the gym, watching Becca in her class and managing a wiggly Sylvia on my lap. I had already noticed the older woman across the room, engrossed in a book whose title I couldn't make out without my glasses. I tend to keep to myself and Sylvie's self during these classes. Something about the world of mothers in real life just repels me. I can chat online all day, but I never get beyond one or two words in person.
The woman to my right stood up and repositioned her chair to get a better look into the gym. Every parent in there furtively crowds around the meager opening, craning their necks to peek into the forbidden world beyond. After years of free range, we were suddenly relegated to a bare waiting room with flimsy plastic chairs, only a few of which afforded a glimpse of our young ones in their exertions. I heard the woman speak, directing her words to the elderly reader across from me: "Is that book...?"
"Oh, it's Edgar Sawtelle, the one about the dog."
"From..." Don't say it. Don't. "Oprah's book club!" Inwardly, I emit a pained groan. I suddenly want to stab myself in the eye with the DS stylus.
Seriously. Woo hoo, Oprah got Americans to read. Problem is, nobody seems to know what to read unless Oprah tells them. Does anyone browse the library anymore? Do a little independent research? Or do they just wait for the next episode of Oprah's book club?
And I wonder why I don't make an effort to befriend everyone in the lobby. Sometimes I think that Sylvia affords me more intelligent conversation.
The woman to my right stood up and repositioned her chair to get a better look into the gym. Every parent in there furtively crowds around the meager opening, craning their necks to peek into the forbidden world beyond. After years of free range, we were suddenly relegated to a bare waiting room with flimsy plastic chairs, only a few of which afforded a glimpse of our young ones in their exertions. I heard the woman speak, directing her words to the elderly reader across from me: "Is that book...?"
"Oh, it's Edgar Sawtelle, the one about the dog."
"From..." Don't say it. Don't. "Oprah's book club!" Inwardly, I emit a pained groan. I suddenly want to stab myself in the eye with the DS stylus.
Seriously. Woo hoo, Oprah got Americans to read. Problem is, nobody seems to know what to read unless Oprah tells them. Does anyone browse the library anymore? Do a little independent research? Or do they just wait for the next episode of Oprah's book club?
And I wonder why I don't make an effort to befriend everyone in the lobby. Sometimes I think that Sylvia affords me more intelligent conversation.
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