In math, we did more order of operations and writing algebraic variable expressions. I am feeling more confident about how things are in terms of my students mastering it.
In science, we finished up the Black Box activity. At first, we continued the previous lesson by having the students draw what they thought the interior of their black box looked like, based on the sounds. It was pretty interesting in how they figured out the inside was a marble and a sponge or foam material. They concluded that by listening and then using the knowledge that they had to conceptually model it.
I then discussed the idea of conceptual modeling by drawing a rough picture of the layers of the Earth. This too was a conceptual model because no one, to the best of my knowledge, has ever gone far down. Remote controlled drills have gone down to 12,262 meters - halfway to the mantle. Beyond that the intense heat begins to melt the drill bits. Since no one has actually seen the interior of the Earth, we can only make conceptual models using the best information that we have available. Also, the conceptual model changes when newer and better data arrives that changes our understanding.
The last activity was to take an empty black box, one piece of foam (triangular or rectangular), and one marble. The task was to arrange it and then have another student/pair listen carefully then draw a conceptual model of the interior of the box, as best as possible.
In literacy, we focused on how readers ask themselves questions as they read a text in order to discern the theme. Together, we read a poem ("Loving You" by Jean Little).
"Loving You", by Jean Little
In my family, we don’t talk much about loving.
My mother never bakes us pies or knits us socks.
More than once, she’s put cream in my father’s coffee, although he takes it black.
When she gets home from work she collapses, with her feet up.
I have to shake her awake when it’s time to eat.
My father never sends her roses or Valentines.
He just says to her, “April, listen to this!... April!” Then she yawns and
opens half an eye and listens, while he reads her something by E. B. White or Tolstoy.
I listen, too. And they listen when I find something so perfect it must be shared.
Nobody ever says, “Not now. I’m busy.” But nobody asks me about my homework either.
And I do not wait to be told it’s time for bed.
If I want to floss my teeth, that’s my affair.
They couldn’t care less.
I used to think they didn’t know I was there.
If I disappeared, I thought, they’d never notice. But I was wrong.
My father looks up, all at once, and asks me, “Katharine, tell me, what is truth?”
And he doesn’t go back to his book till he’s heard my answer.
My mother does leave me to get the supper ready.
But she brings me home ten brand-new drawing pencils.
Someday I’ll send my mother one dozen roses.
Someday I’ll knit my father a pair of socks.
When I have children I’ll tell them, “It’s time for bed.”
But I’ll also ask them sometimes, “What is truth?”
And I’ll leave them to get the supper and bring them pencils.
Loving isn’t as simple as I once thought.
Talking about it isn’t what matters most.