Ian is my almost-4-year-old grandson. He's a pistol. Sandwiched betweeen two practically perfect sisters, he is all boy, and tends to march to his own drum. Lets just say that, with respect to his dad (my son Andy), the apple doesn't fall far from the tree.
Ian came home from pre-school on Monday a little out of sorts. While the family was sitting around the table having a snack, he said huffily: "The teacher doesn't know my name! She calls me Urfa Ian!" Say what? "She calls me Urfa Ian. My name is IAN!"
Jamie, my wonderful DIL, has her master's degree in early childhood education, so she started probing in a way only a gentle pro would probe. After a lot of prodding about the times when the teacher made this terrible mistake, it finally became clear. Ian does not always listen when directions are given, and is often the last to acknowledge that the rest of the class has put their crayons away, or gone back to their seats after story time. This prompts the teacher to try to get his attention by saying --- are you ready? -- "Earth to Ian! Earth to Ian! " .
Urfa Ian. Yep, that apple sure didn't fall far from the tree.