My group is an all-boy group. Despite the fact they are in elementary school, I call them my old men. Our conversations and our connections are easily derailed by medical complaints: sore legs, head aches, old bruises that still “kill”, microscopic cuts that sting “so bad” nothing can get done. One complaint is enough to wipe everyone out. On cue and en masse, they start pulling up their pant legs and sleeves and examine anything that can be considered a mark worthy of a story.
All hands shot up to relay their war stories about bees. One student jumped up and down as he relayed his very detailed encounter at camp with two bees. “And you do know, Ms. G that bees die after they sting you. They just die. I saw them fall to the ground”. He nodded his head vigorously at me.
I considered myself lucky. I was able to contain the conversations and get back to the book and reading. A few minutes later, I heard the same student call my name. “Ms. G. I was never stung by a bee. I made it up.”
I knew the book selection was a bad idea.