童顏童語----當然找不到我

星期六早上終於可以睡到自然醒,無奈身邊的小毛頭將我搖醒........

Howard :媽咪起床了!


ㄚ......我做了一個惡夢,夢見你失蹤了一直找也找不到........


Howard: 我卻做了一個美夢,夢見我到霍格華茲魔法學校上課,還跟Professor Dumbledore握手,所以你當然找不到我呀!

我..........

Howard's 童詩----晴天

晴天.
艷陽高照草地綠,
小小蟲兒鑽出來,
一群鳥兒吱吱叫,
真是個快樂的大晴天.

學校每星期都有讀報要孩子寫報上的詩,這星期是蝴蝶,
我看完後帶著羨慕的口氣說;好棒ㄡ,三年級就會寫詩了,
兒子馬上不服輸說:我也會!
之後馬上唸出;

艷陽高照草地綠,

小小蟲兒鑽出來,

小小鳥兒吱吱叫,

真是個快樂的大晴天.

嗯! 有些不順,經過修改後,似乎好多了,可惜我作文不太好,否則兒子前途不可限量ㄚ......

影片欣賞---Susan Boyle

http://v.youku.com/v_show/id_XODY5NjA0NTI=.html
Susan Boyle，47歲來自蘇格蘭西部農村,和她的10歲貓Pebble同住在蘇格蘭一小鎮，出生時因腦部缺氧導致學習障礙,加上其貌不揚,從小備受嘲諷.一生平淡........(Susan Boyle歌聲裏的恩典與奇蹟有詳細介紹).
一個卑微的小人物成功的踏上國際舞台,其奮鬥過程讓人動容......


也告訴自己;人要有夢想,朝著目標勇往直前,對自己永不放棄!

Harry Potter And the Sorcerer’s Stone-----Chapter 1 :The Boy Who Lived

朗讀哈利波特是Howard未來一年的英文功課也讓自己沒有怠惰的理由......

The Boy Who Lived 1

Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much. They were the last people you’d expect to be involved in anything strange or mysterious, because they just didn’t hold with such nonsense.

Mr. Dursley was the director of a firm called Grunnings, which made drills. He was a big, beefy man with hardly any neck, although he did have a very large mustache. Mrs. Dursley was thin and blonde and had nearly twice the usual amount of neck, which came in very useful as she spent so much of her time craning over garden fences, spying on the neighbors. The Dursleys had a small son called Dudley and in their opinion there was no finer boy anywhere.

The Dursleys had everything they wanted, but they also had a secret, and their greatest fear was that somebody would discover  They didn’t think they could bear it if anyone found out about the Potters. Mrs. Potter was Mrs. Dursley’s sister, but they hadn’t met for several years; in fact, Mrs. Dursley pretended she didn’t have a sister, because her sister and her good-for-nothing husband were as unDursleyish as it was possible to be. The Dursleys shuddered to think what the neighbors would say if the Potters arrived in the street. The Dursleys knew that the Potters had a small son, too, but they had never even seen him. This boy was another good reason for keeping the Potters away; they didn’t want Dudley mixing with a child like that.

When Mr. and Mrs. Dursley woke up on the dull, gray Tuesday our story starts, there was nothing about the cloudy sky outside to suggest that strange and mysterious things would soon be happening all over the country. Mr. Dursley hummed as he picked out his most boring tie for work, and Mrs. Dursley gossiped away happily as she wrestled a screaming Dudley into his high chair.

None of them noticed a large, tawny owl flutter past the window.

At half past eight, Mr. Dursley picked up his briefcase, pecked Mrs. Dursley on the cheek, and tried to kiss Dudley good-bye but missed, because Dudley was now having a tantrum and throwing his cereal at the walls. “Little tyke,” chortled Mr. Dursley as he left the house. He got into his car and backed out of number four’s drive.

It was on the corner of the street that he noticed the first sign of something peculiar — a cat reading a map. For a second, Mr. Dursley didn’t realize what he had seen — then he jerked his head around to look again. There was a tabby cat standing on the corner of Privet Drive, but there wasn’t a map in sight.What could he have been thinking of? It must have been a trick of the light. Mr. Dursley blinked and stared at the cat. It stared back. As Mr. Dursley drove around the corner and up the road, he watched the cat in his mirror. It was now reading the sign that said Privet Drive — no, looking at the sign; cats couldn’t read maps or signs. Mr. Dursley gave himself a little shake and put the cat out of his mind. As he drove toward town he thought of nothing except a large order of drills he was hoping to get that day.

The Boy Who Lived 2

But on the edge of town, drills were driven out of his mind by something else. As he sat in the usual morning traffic jam, he couldn’t help noticing that there seemed to be a lot of strangely
dressed people about. People in cloaks. Mr. Dursley couldn’t bear people who dressed in funny clothes — the getups you saw on young people! He supposed this was some stupid new fashion. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and his eyes fell on a huddle of these weirdos standing quite close by. They were whispering excitedly together. Mr. Dursley was enraged to see that a couple of them weren’t young at all; why, that man had to be older than he was, and wearing an emerald-green cloak! The nerve of him! But then it struck Mr. Dursley that this was probably some silly stunt — these people were obviously collecting for something . . . yes, that would be it. The traffic moved on and a few minutes later, Mr. Dursley arrived in the Grunnings parking lot, his mind back on drills.

Mr. Dursley always sat with his back to the window in his office on the ninth floor. If he hadn’t, he might have found it harder to concentrate on drills that morning. He didn’t see the owls swooping past in broad daylight, though people down in the street did; they pointed and gazed open-mouthed as owl after owl sped overhead. Most of them had never seen an owl even at nighttime. Mr. Dursley, however, had a perfectly normal, owl-free morning. He yelled at five different people. He made several important telephone calls and shouted a bit more. He was in a very good mood until lunchtime, when he thought he’d stretch his legs and walk across the road to buy himself a bun from the bakery.
He’d forgotten all about the people in cloaks until he passed a group of them next to the baker’s. He eyed them angrily as he passed. He didn’t know why, but they made him uneasy. This bunch were whispering excitedly, too, and he couldn’t see a single collecting tin. It was on his way back past them, clutching a large doughnut in a bag, that he caught a few words of what they were
saying.
“The Potters, that’s right, that’s what I heard —” “— yes, their son, Harry —” Mr. Dursley stopped dead. Fear flooded him. He looked back at  the whisperers as if he wanted to say something to them, but  thought better of it.
He dashed back across the road, hurried up to his office, snapped at his secretary not to disturb him, seized his telephone, and had almost finished dialing his home number when he changed his mind. He put the receiver back down and stroked his mustache, thinking . . . no, he was being stupid. Potter wasn’t such an unusual name. He was sure there were lots of people called Potter who had a son called Harry. Come to think of it, he wasn’t even sure his nephew was called Harry. He’d never even seen the boy. It might have been Harvey. Or Harold. There was no point in worrying Mrs. Dursley; she always got so upset at any mention of her sister. He didn’t blame her — if he’d had a sister like that . . . but all the same, those people in cloaks . . .

The Boy Who Lived 3

 He found it a lot harder to concentrate on drills that afternoon and when he left the building at five o’clock, he was still so worried that he walked straight into someone just outside the door.
“Sorry,” he grunted, as the tiny old man stumbled and almost fell. It was a few seconds before Mr. Dursley realized that the man was wearing a violet cloak. He didn’t seem at all upset at being almost knocked to the ground. On the contrary, his face split into a wide smile and he said in a squeaky voice that made passersby stare, “Don’t be sorry, my dear sir, for nothing could upset me today! Rejoice, for You-Know-Who has gone at last! Even Muggles like yourself

should be celebrating, this happy, happy day!”
And the old man hugged Mr. Dursley around the middle and walked off.
Mr. Dursley stood rooted to the spot. He had been hugged by a complete stranger. He also thought he had been called a Muggle, whatever that was. He was rattled. He hurried to his car and set off for home, hoping he was imagining things, which he had never hoped before, because he didn’t approve of imagination.

As he pulled into the driveway of number four, the first thing he saw — and it didn’t improve his mood — was the tabby cat he’d spotted that morning. It was now sitting on his garden wall. He
was sure it was the same one; it had the same markings around its eyes.
“Shoo!” said Mr. Dursley loudly.
The cat didn’t move. It just gave him a stern look. Was this normal cat behavior? Mr. Dursley wondered. Trying to pull himself together, he let himself into the house. He was still determined not to mention anything to his wife.
Mrs. Dursley had had a nice, normal day. She told him over dinner all about Mrs. Next Door’s problems with her daughter and how Dudley had learned a new word (“Won’t!”). Mr. Dursley tried to act normally. When Dudley had been put to bed, he went into the living room in time to catch the last report on the evening news:
“And finally, bird-watchers everywhere have reported that the nation’s owls have been behaving very unusually today. Although owls normally hunt at night and are hardly ever seen in daylight,
there have been hundreds of sightings of these birds flying in every direction since sunrise. Experts are unable to explain why the owls have suddenly changed their sleeping pattern.” The newscaster allowed himself a grin. “Most mysterious. And now, over to Jim McGuffin with the weather. Going to be any more showers of owls tonight, Jim?”
“Well, Ted,” said the weatherman, “I don’t know about that, but it’s not only the owls that have been acting oddly today. Viewers as far apart as Kent, Yorkshire, and Dundee have been phoning in to tell me that instead of the rain I promised yesterday, they’ve had a downpour of shooting stars! Perhaps people have been celebrating Bonfire Night early — it’s not until next week, folks! But I can promise a wet night tonight.”
Mr. Dursley sat frozen in his armchair. Shooting stars all over Britain? Owls flying by daylight? Mysterious people in cloaks all over the place? And a whisper, a whisper about the Potters . . .

The Boy Who Lived 4

 Mrs. Dursley came into the living room carrying two cups of tea. It was no good. He’d have to say something to her. He cleared his throat nervously. “Er — Petunia, dear — you haven’t heard from your sister lately, have you?”
As he had expected, Mrs. Dursley looked shocked and angry. After all, they normally pretended she didn’t have a sister.
“No,” she said sharply. “Why?”
“Funny stuff on the news,” Mr. Dursley mumbled. “Owls . . .shooting stars . . . and there were a lot of funny-looking people in town today . . .”
“So?” snapped Mrs. Dursley.
“Well, I just thought . . . maybe. . . it was something to do with . . . you know . . . her crowd.”
Mrs. Dursley sipped her tea through pursed lips. Mr. Dursley wondered whether he dared tell her he’d heard the name “Potter.” He decided he didn’t dare. Instead he said, as casually as he could, “Their son — he’d be about Dudley’s age now, wouldn’t he?”
“I suppose so,” said Mrs. Dursley stiffly.
“What’s his name again? Howard, isn’t it?”
“Harry. Nasty, common name, if you ask me.”
“Oh, yes,” said Mr. Dursley, his heart sinking horribly. “Yes, I quite agree.”
He didn’t say another word on the subject as they went upstairs to bed. While Mrs. Dursley was in the bathroom, Mr. Dursley crept to the bedroom window and peered down into the front garden.The cat was still there. It was staring down Privet Drive as though it were waiting for something.
Was he imagining things? Could all this have anything to do with the Potters? If it did . . . if it got out that they were related to a pair of — well, he didn’t think he could bear it.

The Dursleys got into bed. Mrs. Dursley fell asleep quickly but Mr. Dursley lay awake, turning it all over in his mind. His last, comforting thought before he fell asleep was that even if the Potters
were involved, there was no reason for them to come near him and Mrs. Dursley. The Potters knew very well what he and Petunia thought about them and their kind. . . . He couldn’t see how he and Petunia could get mixed up in anything that might be going on — he yawned and turned over — it couldn’t affect them. . . How very wrong he was.

Mr. Dursley might have been drifting into an uneasy sleep, but the cat on the wall outside was showing no sign of sleepiness. It was sitting as still as a statue, its eyes fixed unblinkingly on the far corner of Privet Drive. It didn’t so much as quiver when a car door slammed on the next street, nor when two owls swooped overhead.
In fact, it was nearly midnight before the cat moved at all. A man appeared on the corner the cat had been watching, appeared so suddenly and silently you’d have thought he’d just popped out of the ground. The cat’s tail twitched and its eyes narrowed.
Nothing like this man had ever been seen on Privet Drive. He was tall, thin, and very old, judging by the silver of his hair and beard, which were both long enough to tuck into his belt. He was
wearing long robes, a purple cloak that swept the ground, and high-heeled, buckled boots. His blue eyes were light, bright, and sparkling behind half-moon spectacles and his nose was very long and crooked, as though it had been broken at least twice. This man’s name was Albus Dumbledore.

Albus Dumbledore didn’t seem to realize that he had just arrived in a street where everything from his name to his boots was unwelcome. He was busy rummaging in his cloak, looking for something. But he did seem to realize he was being watched, because he looked up suddenly at the cat, which was still staring at him from the other end of the street. For some reason, the sight of the cat seemed to amuse him. He chuckled and muttered, “I should have known.”

The Boy Who Lived 5

He found what he was looking for in his inside pocket. It seemed to be a silver cigarette lighter. He flicked it open, held it up in the air, and clicked it. The nearest street lamp went out with a
little pop. He clicked it again — the next lamp flickered into darkness. Twelve times he clicked the Put-Outer, until the only lights left on the whole street were two tiny pinpricks in the distance,
which were the eyes of the cat watching him. If anyone looked out of their window now, even beady-eyed Mrs. Dursley, they wouldn’t be able to see anything that was happening down on the pavement.Dumbledore slipped the Put-Outer back inside his cloak and set off down the street toward number four, where he sat down on the wall next to the cat. He didn’t look at it, but after a moment he spoke to it.
“Fancy seeing you here, Professor McGonagall.”
He turned to smile at the tabby, but it had gone. Instead he was smiling at a rather severe-looking woman who was wearing square glasses exactly the shape of the markings the cat had had around its eyes. She, too, was wearing a cloak, an emerald one. Her black hair was drawn into a tight bun. She looked distinctly ruffled.
“How did you know it was me?” she asked.
“My dear Professor, I’ve never seen a cat sit so stiffly.”
“You’d be stiff if you’d been sitting on a brick wall all day,” said Professor McGonagall.
“All day? When you could have been celebrating? I must have passed a dozen feasts and parties on my way here.”
Professor McGonagall sniffed angrily.
“Oh yes, everyone’s celebrating, all right,” she said impatiently.
“You’d think they’d be a bit more careful, but no — even the Muggles have noticed something’s going on. It was on their news.” She jerked her head back at the Dursleys’ dark living-room window. “I heard it. Flocks of owls . . . shooting stars. . . . Well, they’re not completely stupid. They were bound to notice something. Shooting stars down in Kent — I’ll bet that was Dedalus Diggle. He never had much sense.”
“You can’t blame them,” said Dumbledore gently. “We’ve had precious little to celebrate for eleven years.” “I know that,” said Professor McGonagall irritably. “But that’s no reason to lose our heads. People are being downright careless,out on the streets in broad daylight, not even dressed in Muggle clothes, swapping rumors.”
She threw a sharp, sideways glance at Dumbledore here, as though hoping he was going to tell her something, but he didn’t, so she went on. “A fine thing it would be if, on the very day You-
Know-Who seems to have disappeared at last, the Muggles found out about us all. I suppose he really has gone, Dumbledore?”

The Boy Who Lived 6

“It certainly seems so,” said Dumbledore. “We have much to be thankful for. Would you care for a lemon drop?”
“A what?”
“A lemon drop. They’re a kind of Muggle sweet I’m rather fond of.”

“No, thank you,” said Professor McGonagall coldly, as though she didn’t think this was the moment for lemon drops. “As I say, even if You-Know-Who has gone —”
“My dear Professor, surely a sensible person like yourself can call him by his name? All this ‘You-Know-Who’ nonsense — for eleven years I have been trying to persuade people to call him by his proper name: Voldemort.” Professor McGonagall flinched, but Dumbledore,who was unsticking two lemon drops, seemed not to notice.“It all gets so confusing if we keep saying ‘You-Know-Who.’ I have never seen any reason to be frightened of saying Voldemort’s
name.”
“I know you haven’t,” said Professor McGonagall, sounding half exasperated, half admiring. “But you’re different. Everyone knows you’re the only one You-Know- oh, all right, Voldemort, was frightened of.”
“You flatter me,” said Dumbledore calmly. “Voldemort had powers I will never have.”
“Only because you’re too — well — noble to use them.”
“It’s lucky it’s dark. I haven’t blushed so much since Madam Pomfrey told me she liked my new earmuffs.”
Professor McGonagall shot a sharp look at Dumbledore and said, “The owls are nothing next to the rumors that are flying around. You know what everyone’s saying? About why he’s disappeared? About what finally stopped him?”
It seemed that Professor McGonagall had reached the point she was most anxious to discuss, the real reason she had been waiting on a cold, hard wall all day, for neither as a cat nor as a woman had she fixed Dumbledore with such a piercing stare as she did now. It was plain that whatever “everyone” was saying, she was not going to believe it until Dumbledore told her it was true. Dumbledore, however, was choosing another lemon drop and did not answer.
“What they’re saying,” she pressed on, “is that last night Voldemort turned up in Godric’s Hollow. He went to find the Potters. The rumor is that Lily and James Potter are — are — that
they’re — dead.”
Dumbledore bowed his head. Professor McGonagall gasped.
“Lily and James . . . I can’t believe it . . . I didn’t want to believe it . . . Oh, Albus . . .”
Dumbledore reached out and patted her on the shoulder. “I know . . . I know . . .” he said heavily.
Professor McGonagall’s voice trembled as she went on. “That’s not all. They’re saying he tried to kill the Potters’ son, Harry. But — he couldn’t. He couldn’t kill that little boy. No one knows
why, or how, but they’re saying that when he couldn’t kill Harry Potter, Voldemort’s power somehow broke — and that’s why he’s gone.”
Dumbledore nodded glumly.
“It’s — it’s true?” faltered Professor McGonagall. “After all he’s done . . . all the people he’s killed . . . he couldn’t kill a little boy? It’s just astounding . . . of all the things to stop him . . . but how in
the name of heaven did Harry survive?”
“We can only guess,” said Dumbledore. “We may never know.”
Professor McGonagall pulled out a lace handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes beneath her spectacles. Dumbledore gave a great sniff as he took a golden watch from his pocket and examined it. It was a very odd watch. It had twelve hands but no numbers; instead,
little planets were moving around the edge. It must have made sense to Dumbledore, though, because he put it back in his pocket and said, “Hagrid’s late. I suppose it was he who told you I’d be here, by the way?”here, by the way?”

The Boy Who Lived 7

“Yes,” said Professor McGonagall. “And I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me why you’re here, of all places?”
“I’ve come to bring Harry to his aunt and uncle. They’re the only family he has left now.”
“You don’t mean — you can’t mean the people who live here?” cried Professor McGonagall, jumping to her feet and pointing at number four. “Dumbledore — you can’t. I’ve been watching them
all day. You couldn’t find two people who are less like us. And they’ve got this son — I saw him kicking his mother all the way up the street, screaming for sweets. Harry Potter come and live here!”
“It’s the best place for him,” said Dumbledore firmly. “His aunt and uncle will be able to explain everything to him when he’s older. I’ve written them a letter.”
“A letter?” repeated Professor McGonagall faintly, sitting back down on the wall. “Really, Dumbledore, you think you can explain all this in a letter? These people will never understand him! He’ll be famous — a legend — I wouldn’t be surprised if today was known as Harry Potter Day in the future — there will be books written about Harry — every child in our world will know his name!”
“Exactly,” said Dumbledore, looking very seriously over the top of his half-moon glasses. “It  
would be enough to turn any boy’s head. Famous before he can walk and talk! Famous for something he won’t even remember! Can’t you see how much better off he’ll be, growing up away 
from all that until he’s ready to take it?”
Professor McGonagall opened her mouth, changed her mind, swallowed, and then said, “Yes — yes, you’re right, of course. But how is the boy getting here, Dumbledore?” She eyed his cloak suddenly as though she thought he might be hiding Harry underneath it. “Hagrid’s bringing him.” “You think it — wise — to trust Hagrid with something as important as this?” “I would trust Hagrid with my life,” said Dumbledore. “I’m not saying his heart isn’t in the right place,” said Professor McGonagall grudgingly, “but you can’t pretend he’s not careless.He does tend to — what was that?” A low rumbling sound had broken the silence around them. It grew steadily louder as they looked up and down the street for some sign of a headlight; it swelled to a roar as they both looked up at the sky — and a huge motorcycle fell out of the air and landed on the road in front of them. If the motorcycle was huge, it was nothing to the man sitting astride it. He was almost twice as tall as a normal man and at least five times as wide. He looked simply too big to be allowed, and so wild — long tangles of bushy black hair and beard hid most of his face, he had hands the size of trash can lids, and his feet in their leather boots were like baby dolphins. In his vast, muscular arms he was holding a bundle of blankets. “Hagrid,” said Dumbledore, sounding relieved. “At last. And where did you get that motorcycle?” “Borrowed it, Professor Dumbledore, sir,” said the giant, climbing carefully off the motorcycle as he spoke. “Young Sirius Black lent it to me. I’ve got him, sir.”
“No problems, were there?” “No, sir — house was almost destroyed, but I got him out all right before the Muggles started swarmin’ around. He fell asleep as we was flyin’ over Bristol.” Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall bent forward over the bundle of blankets. Inside, just visible, was a baby boy, fast asleep. Under a tuft of jet-black hair over his forehead they could see a curiously shaped cut, like a bolt of lightning. “Is that where — ?” whispered Professor McGonagall.

The Boy Who Lived 8

“Yes,” said Dumbledore. “He’ll have that scar forever.” “Couldn’t you do something about it, Dumbledore?” “Even if I could, I wouldn’t. Scars can come in handy. I have one myself above my left knee that is a perfect map of the London Underground. Well — give him here, Hagrid — we’d better get this over with.” Dumbledore took Harry in his arms and turned toward the Dursleys’ house. “Could I — could I say good-bye to him, sir?” asked Hagrid. He bent his great, shaggy head over Harry and gave him what must have been a very scratchy, whiskery kiss. Then, suddenly, Hagrid let out a howl like a wounded dog. “Shhh!” hissed Professor McGonagall, “you’ll wake the Muggles!” “S-s-sorry,” sobbed Hagrid, taking out a large, spotted handkerchief and burying his face in it. “But I c-c-can’t stand it — Lily an’ James dead — an’ poor little Harry off ter live with Muggles —” “Yes, yes, it’s all very sad, but get a grip on yourself, Hagrid, or we’ll be found,” Professor McGonagall whispered, patting Hagrid gingerly on the arm as Dumbledore stepped over the low garden wall and walked to the front door. He laid Harry gently on the doorstep, took a letter out of his cloak, tucked it inside Harry’s blankets, and then came back to the other two. For a full minute
the three of them stood and looked at the little bundle; Hagrid’s shoulders shook, Professor McGonagall blinked furiously, and the twinkling light that usually shone from Dumbledore’s eyes seemed to have gone out. “Well,” said Dumbledore finally, “that’s that. We’ve no business staying here. We may as well go and join the celebrations.” “Yeah,” said Hagrid in a very muffled voice, “I’d best get this bike away. G’night, Professor McGonagall — Professor Dumbledore, sir.” Wiping his streaming eyes on his jacket sleeve, Hagrid swung himself onto the motorcycle and kicked the engine into life; with a roar it rose into the air and off into the night. “I shall see you soon, I expect, Professor McGonagall,” said Dumbledore, nodding to her. Professor McGonagall blew her nose in reply. Dumbledore turned and walked back down the street. On the corner he stopped and took out the silver Put-Outer. He clicked it once, and twelve balls of light sped back to their street lamps so that Privet Drive glowed suddenly orange and he could make out a tabby cat slinking around the corner at the other end of the street. He could just see the bundle of blankets on the step of number four. “Good luck, Harry,” he murmured. He turned on his heel and with a swish of his cloak, he was gone.A breeze ruffled the neat hedges of Privet Drive, which lay silent and tidy under the inky sky, the very last place you would expect astonishing things to happen. Harry Potter rolled over inside his blankets without waking up. One small hand closed on the letter beside him and he slept on, not knowing he was special, not knowing he was famous, not knowing he would be woken in a 
few hours’ time by Mrs. Dursley’s scream as she opened the front door to put out the milk bottles, nor that he would spend the next few weeks being prodded and pinched by his cousin Dudley. . . . He couldn’t know that at this very moment, people meeting in secret all over the country were holding up their glasses and saying in hushed voices: “To Harry Potter — the boy who lived!”

音樂欣賞 ---韓風過境

最近小學舉辦運動會,祔設的幼稚園班小朋友跳韓舞 Sorry ,Sorry,朋友說他兒子幼稚園時也跳過.....再到Youtube看一看,天啊! 已經成國舞了嗎?........不過說真的,聽歌時讓人精神抖擻,還不錯聽.......
另一個女子團體wonder girls 舞風簡單,俏皮可愛,其中nobady~nobady~but you~ 紅遍半邊天......

洗鼻之苦-2

從8月初每天洗鼻子至今已有4個月,這之中有一次是鼻子亂摳造成內部受傷了,因為很痛,兒子說什麼也不願再洗了,然而隔天鼻子又塞住了...........父親心疼兒子,帶他到耳鼻喉科將鼻涕抽出,還開了葯,言明要按時吃......這是我們醫生的善舉:既來之取藥之......藥!我當然沒給Howard吃,隔了一天我連哄帶騙要兒子繼續洗鼻子.
從12/7開始兒子陸續出現感冒症狀,首先是肚子隱隱作痛,這情形維持了3-4天,當我向朋友吹噓兒子現在都不流鼻涕後隔天他馬上掛了両行,咳嗽也馬上來報到,接踵而至的是呼吸困難.整天懶洋洋的.....孩子的爸聽不得他的咳嗽聲,馬上十萬火急的帶他看醫生.並迅速的服下第一帖藥.千交代萬叮嚀我隔天早上一定要給他吃......我不知醫生說什麼,但確定與目前H1N1病毒無關後,我是靜觀其變的.
早上起來後我要兒子在家休息,但他堅持去學校,無法在我的監視下只好給他服了藥,書包理也有一包是父親要他中午吃的.結果..........下課後又見那活蹦亂跳的兒子,回途中沉重的告訴我;藥忘了吃了......所以這次也只吃了2包藥就停止了.
平常洗鼻子是早晚各一次,感冒鼻水多時會到5-7次,若問洗鼻子有什麼好處呢?
不用每個月跑大醫院,不用每天靠藥物控制過敏性鼻炎,好幾次感冒都低空掠過........現在只要不鼻塞Howard已經不把洗鼻子視為畏途了,也慢慢擺脫藥罐子的陰影了........

童顏童語-----我寫的最漂亮

從小一直堅信孩子小肌肉未發育完全.所以沒要他寫字(學校除外)以致上小一後經常滿篇紅字........其實我也不是很在意所以他做功課時就是我的家事時間......
兒子今天國字功課得了個乙上,天啊!以前再怎樣也有甲下啊.....
.這下我可緊張了,聲調中帶著驚訝說:怎麼變乙上啊!


Howard愉快的說:我們班我寫的最漂亮!


你怎麼知道


因為只有我是乙ㄚ...........


不得已只好盯著他寫了,倒不是因為美醜的問題,而是筆劃完全不對.,這將影響他查字典的正確性,.......還好及時發現了!

兒童繪本

文建會兒童繪本文化館




i-library 互動圖書館

The Children's Reading Room



MightyBook

kizClub     

myDmnChannel






應兒子要求到學校當故事媽媽,想當然了,我又多一項功課了.........

樹林國小運動會

照片2009:樹林國小運動會.
朗讀哈利波特是Howard未來一年的英文功課也讓自己沒有怠惰的理由......

音樂欣賞----Owl City

喜歡它那純淨的感覺.......

影片欣賞-----Kseniya Simonova - Sand Animation

朋友介紹的一影片;
烏克蘭24歲女藝術家西蒙諾娃（ Kseniya Simonova）單憑一堆沙，在燈箱上畫圖案，繪畫出二戰時國家遭納粹德軍入侵時人民的慘況...............

我未經歷此痛,但也讓我深深動容..........

學習資源---好讀網站

最近給兒子讀《哈利波特》無意間發現了一很棒的'好讀網站';是推廣中文電子書的公益網站，提供各類電子書及方便的中文直式閱讀軟體，完全免費,裡頭有 古典作品, 絕版好書,武俠小說之類.....
就以《哈利波特》來說1-7集可線上閱讀或下載回家看都行,實在太方便了.......


感謝好讀網站站長的努力,感恩!!!!

童顏童語-----圖書館

一年級新生的圖書證終於辦好了,之前早已鎖定目標--[木馬屠城記]


回家後告訴我;媽咪!很抱歉,[木馬屠城記] 紴借走了........
哦!沒關係!下次吧!
Howard:可是我有看到拿破崙耶!妳要不要看啊


之前聽貝多芬第三號英雄交響曲時有提到這位出色的軍事家,為了引起他學習的興趣.


我說:好啊!好啊!
Howard:那妳今天不能罵我,哦!是一個星期都不可以對我生氣.我才要借給妳看!
你那麼乖我怎麼捨得罵你呢?
Howard:像玩具亂丟,玩水啊......


看他威脅的口氣,天阿!是否我也常犯這種錯呢??

童顏童語----- 好夢連連

從小受過敏體質所苦的Howard對零食從未有大快朵頤的感覺.......,還好在夢裏經常可以吃到巧克力.或冰淇淋之類平常不能多吃的東西.......

早餐時兒子開心的告訴我:媽咪!昨晚我夢見我在吃冰淇淋耶!

真的?不能吃冰淇淋!

好可惜哦! 吃到一半就醒了.


還好!

嘻!嘻!我馬上就再閉上眼睛,繼續把它吃完了.

音樂欣賞---Declan Galbraith

長大後的Declan Galbraith

音樂欣賞-----Declan Galbraith (Children voice)

天籟之聲-----Declan Galbraith
4歲展現歌唱天賦,8歲開始參加歌唱比賽,11歲(2002年)發行第一張唱片Tell me Why 
 Declan Galbraith Lyrics Songs

兒童營養餐～

老師建議學生入校門前就將早餐吃完.這我當然舉雙手贊成,但我又不習慣每天出去買早餐,於是開學後早上經常是蒸冷凍庫的包子饅頭吐司.有時孩子的爸會去買三明治或麵包,,但每天吃真的很怕.....
最近下定決心要好好改善早餐惱人的問題,於是定了一個營養.簡單又方便製作的早餐食譜,把它歸類如下:  

1.新鮮水果:

2.粥類

稀飯(前一晚置於悶燒鍋煮)……地瓜稀飯,皮蛋瘦肉粥,玉米粥,吻仔魚粥…….

麥片粥+牛奶+香蕉或水果乾之類(李子乾,葡萄乾,柿子乾…..種類繁多…..)

3.蛋類

水煮蛋.茶碗蒸, (都可用電鍋蒸).荷包蛋...

麻煩一點:

麵粉+蛋+牛奶或一些營養的五穀麥粉和勻下鍋煎至金黃,(內容物可添加吻仔魚, 玉米粒,蔬菜豆……擇1)

4.單品搭配: 馬鈴薯,地瓜,紅羅蔔,堅果,水果乾,肉鬆,起士,海苔

馬鈴薯,地瓜可一次多蒸些放入冷凍室.要吃時再取適量回溫,或將它切片煎至金黃(因已煮過,所以很快就可離鍋)

飯糰:前一晚的剩飯+肉鬆,起士,海苔+堅果,水果乾……任君選擇

5.飲品:五穀麥粉，黑五類之類,杏仁粉.牛羊奶, 優格, 紅豆薏仁…..

孩子食量並不大,所以上列食材就可做出多種變化,列印下來提醒自己這時常忘事的豬腦袋,讓自己有跡可尋......

弟子規

Howard 吵著出去玩,我堅持他得先將功課弟子規背好,

親愛我　孝何難　親憎我　孝方賢  ,  親有過　諫使更　怡吾色　柔吾聲

因急著要出去,哭著說好難背,一副就是我不會背也不要背的賴皮相.....

學校完全沒有解釋內文的含意,說實在我也不太懂,於是多看幾次了解其中涵義,向兒子解釋過後很快就背起來了,

今天趕快上網做功課,找到有趣的動畫影片,通常兒子會看一遍,之後我將聲音擷錄下來反覆聽,這就讓背誦變的簡單些了......

弟子規易解

音樂欣賞---Connie Talbot

天使一般的6歲小女孩康妮..........

Connie Talbot Lyrics Songs