Having wrapped up the alphabet *ahem* two or three weeks ago, our preschoolers began SCIENCE. (Seriously, why in the midst of this pandemic go-nowhere-what-day-is-it-lifestyle can I not meet a self-imposed blogging deadline? And what’s with all the hyphens?)
That day: plants. Specifically, the pumpkin plants which had been flourishing in their pots on our patio.
First, we learned a thing or three about plants: they have roots for holding them into the dirt, stems for holding onto their leaves, and leaves for making their own food. We did say “photosynthesis” together. We did not write the equation, however.
Then, we learned the growth stages of a pumpkin plant. Ready?
Seed!
Sprout! (He’s pretty cute, but pumpkins can’t compete with trucks.)
Skinny thing! (The vine.)
Flower!
Green pumpkin!
Orange pumpkin!
Pumpkin pie that Oma makes! (Miss Em came up with this part all by herself. Smart child.)
Next, we pulled on our muddy puddle boots, grabbed a potted pumpkin from the patio, and headed to the front yard where I figured pumpkins would get barely enough sunshine to commence photosynthesis in our shady acre.
We dug holes. We un-potted our pumpkins and plopped them in the dirt. We gave each plant a drink of cool tap water after we had quenched our own thirst.
Lastly, we posed like good little pandemic gardeners, in front of our plants. I am happy to report that six out of the seven pumpkins planted that day are surviving, if not thriving. One little mishap may have ended the life of Miss Em’s plant, as just as I was about to say “Don’t stomp on your plant!” — she did.
Ah, well. Come October, maybe we’ll have some fruit for our labors, or a pie for my punkins’!