School In Our Jammies

Deep in the backyard forest, far from the green grass and beds of blooming things, a table stood.  In it, inches of white powder.  Nearby, cylinders of jewel-toned liquids lined rustic benches, each for its own small scientist.

They approached cautiously.  Smelly liquid, albeit lovely in color, held scant allure.  Beyond the forest patch stood playground, sand pile, balls, a bat.

Ever slowly, each small scientist chose a pipette, warily filling it with foul fluids.  Upon discovering the marriage of white powder and foul-smelling stuff – how it fizzed! how it fizzled! – they set to work.

And there was silence in Preschool Land for a solid thirty minutes.

They squirted colors and observed them sizzle.  They merged color with color, creating tiny volcanoes which erupted with amethyst or azure lava.  They dredged ruby rivers.  They squished snowy dust into a solid mass, spilling forth from teeming tubes.

They piled, dumped, scooped, squirted.  And they did all this in the quiet, calm, stillness of the forest, where stood a table of baking soda and tubes of dyed vinegar.

What I said:  Today we’re going to talk about atoms!  Did you know that everything you can touch is made of teeny, tiny atoms?

What they heard:  Blah, blah, blah … atoms.

What I did:  Atoms are always moving!  Let’s see how atoms move.  I’m going to fill this beaker with icy, cold water from the refrigerator.  Would you like to touch it?

What they did:  On cue, they took turns verifying that the cold water was cold.

What I said next: Now, in this other beaker I’m going to put hot water from the tea kettle. You shouldn’t touch hot water.  You can feel the sides of the beaker if you want to.  Is it hot?

What they did: Nothing.  Hot water is not appealing.

What I said after that:  I’m going to put a drop of blue color into the cold beaker, and a drop of red into the hot beaker.

What they said:  THE BLUE IS SINKING!

What I said:  Yes!  You guys know about sinking and floating, don’t you?  What’s happening in the hot water?

What they said: Can we put more blue color in there?

What I did: Moved on to the next big thing, which was another chemical reaction demonstrating that not only can you blow balloons with science, but you can also clean dirty pennies.

What I should have done:  Check to see if the dirty pennies would fit into the “giant test tubes” I had purchased from my favorite science supply company.  These are also called “baby soda bottles”.  I don’t know why.

What I did: Pried all the dirty pennies out of the baby soda bottles, a.k.a. giant test tubes, ran out to the science lab, a.k.a. the garage, and grabbed more beakers.

What they did:  Added a teaspoon of salt to the beakers filled with vinegar, and plopped their pennies inside.

What I said:  What’s happening to your pennies?

What they said:  Can we play with the giant test tubes?  I want the green color!

What happened for the next twenty minutes:  Color mixing.  Puddles on the kitchen counter.  Wiping puddles with towels.  Lots and lots of delighted play, a.k.a. science experiments in disguise.  Baby soda bottles, for the win.

You know how it goes with balloons.  It takes a lot of huffin’ and puffin’ to get ’em blown up.  When you do — or when you talk someone else into blowing one for you — you can tie it to a string and run, or bat it above the sleeping cat, or pop it.  Balloons are versatile toys.

But, in order to do any of these activities, you first have to inflate the latex and then knot it securely.  As we learned in preschool science last week, there are two methods of inflation.  We’ll begin with the obvious one: by your own mouth.

First, you must put the open end of the balloon in your mouth, but not all the way in your mouth. Ideally, a centimeter of balloon should be inside your lips, and the rest should hang outside your lips.

Next, hold the balloon’s neck with your lips, but not too tightly and stop laughing when I say “neck”.  The idea is not to strangle the poor balloon, but to kiss it. Gently.

It also helps to hold the neck part next to your lips with two of your fingers. Or all ten.  But no squeezing.

Now, take a deep breath, filling your lungs with good, fresh air.  You’re going to exhale all of that air out of your lungs, past your teeth, over your tongue, through your mouth, and into the balloon — without puffing your cheeks.  You heard me — no puffing.  Ready?  Go.

Deep breath.

Relax cheeks.

Pucker lips.

Blow.

Okay, try again.  Pretend you’re a trumpeter.  Trumpeters practice good embouchure, which is French for “facial muscle tension.”  You’re welcome.

Still having trouble?  Well, how about let’s forget the mouth method and learn how to blow up a balloon with science instead?  Okay.

You’ll each need an empty plastic bottle, some baking soda, some vinegar, and a spoon.  Oma will pour vinegar into your bottles, and you can scoop soda into the balloon.

Once you have a pile of soda inside the latex (squish the balloon bulb with your fingers so you can tell if you have soda inside) you’re going to stretch the balloon neck around the opening of the bottle.

Good job.

The next part is the fun part:  While holding the balloon neck, lift the bulb end of the balloon so that the soda drops into the bottle, contacting that vinegar.

What do you think?

Pretty neat!  Science for the win, again.

No, I don’t know why Oma is wearing one black sock and one white sock.  But if you let her kiss your puffy cheeks, she’ll let you fill another balloon neck with baking soda, watch it inflate, tie it off for you, and watch you bat it around the back yard.

This is a line from a Baum Family favorite, Back to the Future.  Marty’s young dad is attempting to woo his future wife, Lorraine.  He means “destiny”, making this a malapropism — also humorous but not as much.

Density was our destiny this week in preschool.  Density, the measure of how tightly-packed the atoms of a substance are, is a difficult concept for middle-schoolers, let alone preschoolers.  But our punkins already know about floating and sinking, don’t they? Yep. Now they know that corn syrup floats atop honey because it is less dense than honey, and that Oma’s Density Tower is quite good-looking.

During construction, our Density Tower revealed a surprise or two.  Substituting molasses for maple syrup, Oma and Co. discovered that molasses is not only highly viscous (see how it sticks to the side of the cylinder?), it is more dense than corn syrup, and thus those two traded places almost immediately.

Whole milk came next, and then liquid dish soap.  Density is fascinating.  Truly.

Miss Nomi, a.k.a. the one who draws rainbows on everything, noted the distinct layers: dish soap (green), tap water (yellow-orange), avocado oil (clearly hidden in the back of the cupboard to come in handy today), and Isopropyl alcohol (red). Not quite ROY G. BIV, and  yet — distinct.

Continuing on, we made boats.  A careful look will show one fashioned into a skiff, while the others styled more as “baked potato wrapper”. Nevertheless all floated, as boats should when launched into a very blue ocean.  Archimedes would tell us that boats float because the water they displace is more dense than their cargo.  Miss Em proved him correct.

A careful look at the two boats, below, will reveal that one has sunk to the bottom of our ocean because its cargo of pennies, beads and bottle caps finally out-densed the volume of water they replaced.  The other boat?

Well, what’s the fun of keeping your boat afloat if your cousin has just sunk hers?

None, I tell you.  All boats, potato-wrapper, dingy or skiff, met their destiny at the bottom of the ocean this day because —  density.

The forced relocation of my science lab from classroom to home garage (thanks, COVID) resulted in a boon for preschool:  all the test tubes, beakers, funnels, pipettes, scalpels, scales, cylinders, burners, and whatnot an Oma could need. Right here!  Right where I can grab what I want, anytime I want it!

Yesterday, I wanted a great big cylinder, a couple of pitchers, one 250 mL beaker, two plastic pipettes, food dye, and a bunch of little containers for colored water.  These so that Miss Em could practice her lab skills.  Missing were the cousins, but we’ll catch them up next time.

Our lesson this day was a variation of last week’s “floating and sinking”.  Calling it “oil and water”, I first prepped the lab table with all the special things.  Miss Em dove right in.

“Miss Em, would you like to smell the water in this cup?”  She would, and it smelled good.  Knowing blue water is more spectacular than clear water, we dropped a drop of blue into her cup and she swirled it right away.  It still smelled good, even though it looked different.  We did not taste, as the first rule in chemistry lab is never lick the spoon…or taste the stuff in the cup.

Next, we looked at the oil in the other cup.  Miss Em smelled it.  “Would you like to touch it?” I asked.  She would, and it was slippery.

This I love about science — even when you KNOW what’s going to happen, it’s still cool.  Just look at those layers!  Deep blue water on the bottom with oil floating on the top. (Having that gigantic graduate on hand just made the demo all the more cool.) Miss Em thought it was cool, too, especially since it was her first time.  A big shake of the cylinder mixed the liquids temporarily, but ta da! They separated again, just like they were supposed to.

Not done experimenting yet, we improvised further.  Oil atop clear water, along with teeny cups of blue, red, yellow, and green water, allowed Miss Em to practice her pipetting skills. Pipettes, you’ll recall, are tricky. Used to accurately measure and transfer teeny amounts of liquids from one solution to another, they require practice.

Teeny amounts of liquid are called “micro-drops”.  So, here we have a micro-scientist  squirting micro-drops into a beaker. She’s doing a decent job of it, and she has good technique.  See the concentration? See how she’s holding that pipette almost vertical? That’s important.

Soon the joy of shooting and stirring colored water got the best of my micro-scientist.

But just before careful technique turned to unbridled merriment, we had this:

Orbs of jewel-toned micro-drops falling lazily through a cloud of oil, bursting as they encountered a water layer.  Pretty, yes?

Still pretty.  Still science.  Still cool.

All smart science students — even the small ones — follow the scientific method.

The scientific method, you will recall from your fifth grade teacher (mine was Mrs. Powell), involves observation first:  “Look!  What did Oma put on the cookie sheet?”

Next, a question:  Oma! What are we going to do with that bin of water?  Can we eat the orange?

After that, a hypothesis: Moses, can you find the key?  Will the key float or sink?

Without hesitation — “No float!  Seenk!”

Then, you have to test your hypothesis: Drop the thing from the cookie sheet into the water bin.

Yep.  It definitely seenks.  Sinks.

Before drawing a conclusion, though, smart, little scientists continue to test, test, test… always aware that they could be wrong.  In fact, they were on occasion — plastic Dixie cups sink after they fill with water.  Pompoms initially float, but not for long.  Plastic bear-shaped cookie cutters sink as fast as steel balls do. How about that?

Scientists –smart ones, anyway — know the dangers of extrapolation. So, instead of assuming grapes will float because oranges did (both are fruit?), our small scientists gleefully retested their hypotheses at lunchtime.

Yep, those are grapes and they SINK.  Bread crust from grilled-cheese sandwiches does, also.  (In the interest of science and the absence of mommies, who may not allow “retesting” at home, Oma and Opa condoned this behavior.)

All three future scientists agree that not only were their conclusions consistent with the data, floating and sinking is great fun.

Can you say “sink”?

Considering the myriad of beach choices in these parts, we’ve made this one our go-to since the parents of our preschoolers were little.  Anderson Point is never crowded.  The half-mile switchback from the cars to the shore is doable for little legs. And, even on a Thursday when the perfect, sunny beach weather turned within thirty minutes into a nominal, gray, Puget Sound day, we enjoyed our marine biology exploration.

First, these little ladies noted their matching dresses from Primark, purchased by their mommies in Reading, UK, last February.  “We’re matching!” both exclaimed in the parking lot. Remember when matching was a thing?  I do.

Notice the chunky gravel? Because bloodied knees were not on the itinerary, we grownups insisted there be NO RUNNING until we reached the beach. Hand-holding, however, was optional.  Mr. Mo chose to ride in his carriage.

Running commenced as soon as we reached the grasslands, and the punkins could catch up to Opa.  He was pointing to something, which turned out to be a blue heron standing, as they do, in inches of water.

Both girls discovered several seashells by the seashore, but also sea grass, sea weeds, plenty of rocks, one dead bullhead, a sea anemone, several seagulls, two blue herons, sail boats, power boats, driftwood, and ALL the sand.

Erin demonstrated how sand makes a perfect place to practice one’s penmanship.

Naomi found a footprint.  “What do you think made that footprint, Naomi” I asked, seizing upon that teachable moment.

“A dinosaur?”

Brilliant answer, for sure.  The heron that made it certainly looks prehistoric.

For his part, Mr. Mo was in want of warm blankets, where he stayed until Opa pushed him up the half-mile switchback to the cars.

For my part, I remain determined to try again for a warm, sunshiny, beach exploration before this summer ends. Because, what’s not to like about a beach?

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’!

We made our own zoo for Letter Z day, complete with a family of pachyderms, an owl, a couple of primates, and a few other critters.  My preschoolers brought the animals; I provided the backyard.  I tried to provide advice on habitats, the food pyramid, and the necessity of segregating omnivores and carnivores, but my young zookeepers had other ideas.  Yes, there are ramifications when monkeys shack up with lions. But who cares?

First, we made a sign.  I was all about the wording – should it be “Preschool Zoo” or “OmaOpa’s Zoo”, or “Raintree Zoo”? In the end, though, a simple “ZOO” sufficed, as the tots cannot yet read.

Also, animal enclosures:  should they be more “cage-like”, or “natural habitat?”  The tots had the most fun hauling their critters out the screen door and jumping into the pile of them, so we opted for blankets spread on lawn.

At our zoo, visitors can snuggle, feed, and play with the residents.  Does this happen at your zoo?  Probably not.

After a busy morning on the job, zookeepers get to take a lunch break and eat monkey sandwiches.  Nobody asked the monkey how he felt about that, but presumably the ear of corn stuck in his ear kept him from caring.

Ta da!  Our romp through the alphabet, letter by letter, is now complete.  Up next: science!

Letter Y was a tad overshadowed by the big thing downstairs, but we managed to do it justice.

Yellow:  bananas, lemons, sunshine, bendable figures.  Highlighters!

All the while, the big thing was downstairs.  Under a blanket.  Opa kept wandering out the back door, ostensibly to check the weather (which was drizzly).

Miss Nomi, who can’t spell but knows the concept of adults doing so in her presence, was on high alert.  At one point, she nonchalantly said something about “the car.”

“Why did you say that?” asked her mommy.

“I saw the picture on the box,” replied she who notices much, even a little picture on the side of a big box which had been otherwise camouflaged with cardboard.

Drizzle stopped, Opa’s briefing completed, shoes and jackets on, we headed to the racetrack/ back lawn.

Instead of 2+ hours of drivers’ training, we were stymied by a rapidly-dying battery.  Opa thinks he’s got it fixed, so next week — dry grass and Lord willing — we shall pick up where we stopped:  acceleration and steering around the dirt pile.  Plus, the taking of passengers:  three kids, two seats, 130 pound weight limit.  So far, we’re good on all counts.