I think I'm finally feeling almost normal today. Christmas holiday, New Year's, extended vacations for my son and my husband, then a ridiculous cold front that caused more unplanned time off—all that mayhem has meant no time for me to enjoy the silence and build up my introvert reserves. Even today was tarnished by yet another school delay. I love my son, but when we can't even step outside for fear of frostbite...? Enough.
At this moment, at last, I am flourishing in stillness. The swish of the washing machine in the basement is the only sound to accompany my tapping on the keyboard. Blissful. Soon, the symphony of rushing heat from the vent will start again, offering a variety in my minimal auditory stimulation. Perhaps I'll turn on some music in a little while, but not yet. Not yet.
I visited Macy's recently (an item to return, an unused gift card—these are the things that are required to get me into the mall). I stood in that vast space dedicated to consumer culture, and I gaped at the innumerable items around me. Modern, classic, work-out, work-wear, young and hip, old and proven. And that was just the petite section of women's clothing. Are you kidding me? How's a person supposed to choose from such a plethora of options? I don't have the energy to narrow down the categories. At least, I don't want to expend my precious energy doing something so pointless for very long. I know I've written about this before, the ludicrously large number of choices we have when purchasing anything, and I'm still wound up about it. More and more, I love thrift stores. Now I can add this reason to the list: fewer choices to have to make. Limited options simplify my life; too much of anything is not pleasing.
I can carry that argument back into the Christmas season, which finally limped out the door while I kicked it and hollered with glee. I love Jesus, yet I despise a lot of Christmas. And you know why? Because there is too much of everything. Think about it. Too many parties, too many dinners, too many cookies, too many responsibilities and gifts to buy and people to remember and time off and even too much red wine. Excessive revelry, even excessive fellowship, makes me antsy and short of breath, eager only to retreat.
So, I grasp with new depth why I steer clear of Macy's and places like it, and why I sing joyfully to myself as I take down the Christmas decorations. It's not just a new year, or even a new start that lightens my heart.
It's the promise of LESS.
Showing posts with label school. Show all posts
Showing posts with label school. Show all posts
Wednesday, January 8, 2014
Friday, August 30, 2013
Filtered (and filter) thoughts
Here's something I'm not going to write about: the denial-turned-melancholy in my heart when I walk along our road and see the first leafy hints of autumn, fluttering nonchalantly to the ground, spinning dizzily as they fall.
And the feeling in my stomach when my son climbs on the hulking yellow bus and rides away from me. I'm not going to write about that either, because I don't want to ponder the empty feeling in my stomach that has nothing to do with an inadequate breakfast. I choose not to dwell on his fleeting childhood that I am free to witness, but never to slow or delay. The uneasy feeling that time is slipping away from me, and moments are passing more quickly than I can record them—I'm not going to write about that.
Maybe I could write about how I recently canned homemade items from garden produce. That would be a happy post, right? Well, no. Not when I remember how much work and how many tomatoes go into creating a very small assortment of canned goods. Besides, I've already written about it here and here.
Hey, I know! I'll write a letter!
There, that ought to do it for today. Happy Labor Day weekend!
And the feeling in my stomach when my son climbs on the hulking yellow bus and rides away from me. I'm not going to write about that either, because I don't want to ponder the empty feeling in my stomach that has nothing to do with an inadequate breakfast. I choose not to dwell on his fleeting childhood that I am free to witness, but never to slow or delay. The uneasy feeling that time is slipping away from me, and moments are passing more quickly than I can record them—I'm not going to write about that.
Maybe I could write about how I recently canned homemade items from garden produce. That would be a happy post, right? Well, no. Not when I remember how much work and how many tomatoes go into creating a very small assortment of canned goods. Besides, I've already written about it here and here.
Hey, I know! I'll write a letter!
Dear Makers of the Kindle E-Reader:
I am the owner of an older model Kindle Fire. I love it, except for one design flaw—when I'm sitting in reasonably bright light, reading from the Kindle, I have to place the reader in such a position that I see my own, awful, loose-skinned lower neck reflected back at me from the smooth surface of the reader. The sight of that hideous neck skin is so ugly, and so much resembles a turkey wattle, that I am sickened and thus rendered too ill to finish my Kindle activity. I'm guessing that you've already addressed this flaw in newer models of the Kindle Fire, but that doesn't help me as I am unable to part with that much cash again when I have a perfectly good Fire in my hands already. Perhaps you offer some kind of beauty filter? A scrim of sorts to fit over the Kindle surface, something that will soften or alter the appearance of my awful lower neck? I'll hope to hear back from you soon with a solution to this issue.
There, that ought to do it for today. Happy Labor Day weekend!
Saturday, August 10, 2013
At last, a new painting
Finally I've finished another painting. (Painting in July and August is just plain difficult. Unless I have time on my hands and, in this current monsoon summer, a covered patio under which to pitch an easel... which I do not.)
My source for this one was a lovely photo taken by the fine folks at North Woods Ranch. It features one of their fuzzy beasts, eying the camera (with suspicion?) on a foggy and somewhat mysterious morning. Every time I look at it, I think of the song "Misty Morning Hop" by Led Zeppelin. Not that the cow looks ready to hop around—especially not to that thumping tune. But the mist, people. The mist.
So. It's for sale in my Etsy shop.
Not much else is happening here. We are sadly marking the days until school begins. We camped out in the yard last night, and let me tell you, there are plenty of creatures stirring around 2:30am. Including me, with a small hill and at least two tree roots under my spine...
Enjoy the weekend; I hope you are able to squeeze in at least one activity that delights you.
My source for this one was a lovely photo taken by the fine folks at North Woods Ranch. It features one of their fuzzy beasts, eying the camera (with suspicion?) on a foggy and somewhat mysterious morning. Every time I look at it, I think of the song "Misty Morning Hop" by Led Zeppelin. Not that the cow looks ready to hop around—especially not to that thumping tune. But the mist, people. The mist.
So. It's for sale in my Etsy shop.
Not much else is happening here. We are sadly marking the days until school begins. We camped out in the yard last night, and let me tell you, there are plenty of creatures stirring around 2:30am. Including me, with a small hill and at least two tree roots under my spine...
Enjoy the weekend; I hope you are able to squeeze in at least one activity that delights you.
Monday, May 13, 2013
I really have done more than paint...
...but all the other stuff I've been doing is ongoing and never "finished" and, hence, there is nothing to show for my labors. Thus, I show you these creations.
Birthdays, yard work, house projects, Mother's Day, etc. have all been sweeping us into a vortex of busy, and I realized yesterday, with speechless awe, that there remain only 4 weeks of school.
Good heavens! I'd better get busy! Lord knows how little I'll get done with that sweet kid at home.
Take care until next time. Carpe diem! And don't forget your jacket!
P.S. The cat painting features one of our neighbors' kitties. Isn't she regal in her repose?
Birthdays, yard work, house projects, Mother's Day, etc. have all been sweeping us into a vortex of busy, and I realized yesterday, with speechless awe, that there remain only 4 weeks of school.
Good heavens! I'd better get busy! Lord knows how little I'll get done with that sweet kid at home.
Take care until next time. Carpe diem! And don't forget your jacket!
P.S. The cat painting features one of our neighbors' kitties. Isn't she regal in her repose?
Tuesday, December 18, 2012
Hope for healing
In light of my last post, I thought I'd give everyone an uncomfortable glance into what the lower portion of my face looked like the day after I fell on it. However, in the event that some of you don't want to look upon such hideousness, I thought I'd better show the "healing in process" photos first. So, here are images of the current state of my countenance.
Scroll down.
Scroll down some more.
A little more. Skip right past the next pic, if you'd like.
And here (grimace, cringe) is a "before" photo.
The lessons from this experience keep multiplying. First, I thought the lesson was simple: Don't run, even in jest, when your hands are in your pockets. Foolish. Now I know; lesson learned.
But it turns out the lessons were many. Never minimize the emotional impact of a physical injury. Never assume that something is covered by insurance. Keep your chin up, especially in front of your small child. Try to be a good example, even under duress. Remember the kindnesses of friends, and pay those gestures forward whenever circumstances allow. And so on. And so on.
Then, just as things were getting back to normal, I watched the news and was horrified at a story of another school shooting. Small children, heroic teachers and leaders, a town shaken to its core. I have since turned off the rarely watched television, stopped reading the e-headlines about the event; there's just no point in reliving the awful but familiar stories. It's too upsetting.
Yet something keeps occurring to me, every time I look in the mirror: We are made for healing. Our bodies are designed to knit back together when things are broken. Not all injuries can be undone, I know that. Not all bodies have the same abilities to mend. There are some breaks that can never be repaired, and some defects that are innate and cannot be undone in this life, in this place. Perhaps the young man who caused that school tragedy could have been healed; perhaps not. We'll never know.
But I do know this: Most of our cells keep renewing, splitting and growing, replacing themselves. Our bones, too—with some placement help, our bones know how to join back together. Every time I'm putting oil on my newest scar, each time I rub the oil into my skin and feel the odd, tickling itch that follows, I am reminded that even now, new skin is forming, replacing the damaged. Blood is flowing through that area, bringing the necessary building blocks, bringing life.
Will my face ever be as it was before? No. Will that bleeding Connecticut town? Absolutely not. Healing doesn't mean that it will be the same as it used to be. Often, there are lasting, indelible marks left from pain. Those marks might be tender, or even sore, forever. On the flip side, like in stories of healing from the Bible, the healed person is better than before, not just restored but also improved.
Is it possible that improvement through healing doesn't have to be a flip side? Can scars and healing and improvement all happen simultaneously? Maybe.
I don't know what every type of healing looks like. I know only that healing does happen, and that we were created to heal. I am praying for healing that goes beyond our understanding, for all the people in that little Connecticut town. For people everywhere, in fact.
Scroll down.
Scroll down some more.
A little more. Skip right past the next pic, if you'd like.
And here (grimace, cringe) is a "before" photo.
The lessons from this experience keep multiplying. First, I thought the lesson was simple: Don't run, even in jest, when your hands are in your pockets. Foolish. Now I know; lesson learned.
But it turns out the lessons were many. Never minimize the emotional impact of a physical injury. Never assume that something is covered by insurance. Keep your chin up, especially in front of your small child. Try to be a good example, even under duress. Remember the kindnesses of friends, and pay those gestures forward whenever circumstances allow. And so on. And so on.
Then, just as things were getting back to normal, I watched the news and was horrified at a story of another school shooting. Small children, heroic teachers and leaders, a town shaken to its core. I have since turned off the rarely watched television, stopped reading the e-headlines about the event; there's just no point in reliving the awful but familiar stories. It's too upsetting.
Yet something keeps occurring to me, every time I look in the mirror: We are made for healing. Our bodies are designed to knit back together when things are broken. Not all injuries can be undone, I know that. Not all bodies have the same abilities to mend. There are some breaks that can never be repaired, and some defects that are innate and cannot be undone in this life, in this place. Perhaps the young man who caused that school tragedy could have been healed; perhaps not. We'll never know.
But I do know this: Most of our cells keep renewing, splitting and growing, replacing themselves. Our bones, too—with some placement help, our bones know how to join back together. Every time I'm putting oil on my newest scar, each time I rub the oil into my skin and feel the odd, tickling itch that follows, I am reminded that even now, new skin is forming, replacing the damaged. Blood is flowing through that area, bringing the necessary building blocks, bringing life.
Will my face ever be as it was before? No. Will that bleeding Connecticut town? Absolutely not. Healing doesn't mean that it will be the same as it used to be. Often, there are lasting, indelible marks left from pain. Those marks might be tender, or even sore, forever. On the flip side, like in stories of healing from the Bible, the healed person is better than before, not just restored but also improved.
Is it possible that improvement through healing doesn't have to be a flip side? Can scars and healing and improvement all happen simultaneously? Maybe.
I don't know what every type of healing looks like. I know only that healing does happen, and that we were created to heal. I am praying for healing that goes beyond our understanding, for all the people in that little Connecticut town. For people everywhere, in fact.
Thursday, September 8, 2011
Finally, a new painting
Now the kiddo is back in school and I'm going through that strange adjustment period of sudden silence. I'll figure out what to do with myself in a few days, but for now I'll just wander around in a bit of a haze... and figure out what to paint next.
The lion in my Etsy shop; I'll be turning the image into cards and/or prints when I can pin down the husband to help me with technical specifics.
Seize these last couple of weeks of summer! Consider lying in some tall grass amid dappled sunshine, like this big-maned fellow!
Friday, May 27, 2011
It lived up to its name
I've written about the Pittsburgh Zoo and PPG Aquarium before on this blog. And I've been there many times since my son was born. We even sprang for a membership last year, which we thoroughly enjoyed. However, I've been somewhat spoiled in my zoo visitations, because I've always been able to take advantage of weekday mornings and off-season lulls. Our family's zoo escapades were made with crowd avoidance in mind, with daytime temperatures in mind, and we've always steered clear of May visits, period. Why? Field trips, that's why.
Except yesterday, I was the field trip. I went to the zoo with my son's kindergarten class. Some other insane mothers also chaperoned (one of them coming straight from a night shift—no sleep!!!) and we met the buses in the parking lot. We'd already received a list of the kids for whom we'd be responsible, and we checked names, counted heads, double-checked lunches, and set off through the zoo. We had to meet back at the entrance in under four hours, and there was much to see.
A couple of my little cuties immediately decided they wanted to stop at one of several shops; they seemed to be convinced that I'd be ponying up for everyone to purchase an overpriced item from China. Sorry, kids, not happening. I steered them clear of the first store and we made our way toward the leopard and tigers. It began to dawn on me, then, just how many people were visiting the zoo that day. Hordes of kids and a handful of adults, most in a series of matching t-shirts, were crushed up against all the fences surrounding the tiger area. People were standing several folks deep in places. It was a bit unnerving.
I tried to keep an eye on my five children, one of whom was my own; this was not an easy task in such a slew of small bodies. I'd have them in sight, and then one would be gone, then two... Sigh. When I finally was able to extricate all five of them from the mass, I called an emergency meeting. We needed a team name, I said. And some rules.
One child wanted to be the Cats, another wanted to be Orange Cubs, so we combined and became the Orange Cats* for the day. Also, I explained, there are tons of people here and I need to be able to easily see you all, at all times. That meant, I stressed, no one more than 10 feet away at a time. Perhaps I should have forced hand-holding, but honestly, it was hard to do—the day was heating up, people were sweaty, slippery little hands kept sliding away anyway, boys outnumbered girls... and I was not their teacher. They just weren't as willing to do that for me. I guess I can't blame them.
So, the Orange Cats set out once again, up the hill toward the savannas of Africa. It seemed that every display caused a slight uproar of sorts: the elephant house was too smelly, the fish in the pond were yucky, the orangutan was vigorously scratching an inappropriate area, the gorilla had some sort of visible residue on his posterior... Through it all, I kept losing my kids in the crowds, then finding them again. I can tell you in precise detail what each one of them had one because I got so good at locating the clothing. Happily, calling to the Orange Cats yielded better results than yelling out their names.
At some point, after much repetition of the phrase, "I'm hungry, I want lunch," I noticed that indeed, our bag lunches were looking worse for travel. I gave in at 11:30, and we found a large shady rock outside the aquarium and ate our sandwiches. Several people needed help opening packages, but at last we were all munching and for a moment, life was calm. We hit the head, and got drinks of water.
Refueled, we plunged into the aquarium (the building that houses the tanks, not the tank itself) and the madness resumed. Bigger crowds than ever shuffled through the dark halls, and the noise was deafening. Even if you could see your charge a few feet away, they likely couldn't hear you calling because of the throng of voices all around. We finally got out of there, passing through one of the cute zoo shops so the kids could see I was, in fact, not springing for toys for all. Once they comprehended this sad truth, they made their way outside again and we headed downhill to the polar bear exhibit. Outside the big bears' window, one of my kids announced that he was bleeding. Indeed, he was: lovely red droplets stood out on his shin. Did I have a tissue? Neosporin? Of course not. I'm the rebel mother who won't even join PTO, remember? Naturally I did not have the "good mom" tools of the trade. We found another restroom, I appointed the biggest kid as stand-in leader, and I rushed into the ladies' room to get a paper towel and soap. No towels! We're green!!! Blow your hands dry! So I had to stem the flow with toilet paper.
The boy survived and we went on. Little did I know that the worst was yet to come.
Kids Kingdom is a part of the zoo specifically designed for kids. It has play areas, animals you can pet, crazy rope bridges and climbing apparatuses. The Kingdom also has several enclosed slides at its entrance. I hate enclosed areas and have never attempted to partake in these slides, but I know that even on less crowded days, the slides are popular. On this day, they were absolutely mobbed. The children in my little group had been talking about them and couldn't wait to get there; also, I'd happily noticed that my gang was getting a bit more tired and slowing down. I made them all promise to come right back to me and not leave the slide area. (Stupid, I know—I should have handcuffed them all to me and run in the other direction.) Anyway, the Orange Cats had been listening pretty well and staying together. I found an obvious place to stand and waited for them to return to me.
Minutes passed. The two little girls showed up at the bottom of one slide, and I quickly corralled them. One time down was enough. My son showed up. And the other two remained missing.
More minutes passed. It felt like at least ten. Maybe 7 or 8 minutes? I kept checking my watch. They were gone. I had the other three sit in front of me and we all scanned the crowd. I was praying they'd show up. Where were they? What could have happened? Would they have gone on to the next area without me? After we'd all agreed to stay here until we were together again? I scrunched around in my purse, found my wallet, pulled out the number of the teacher... I had to talk to her and find out the procedure for lost kids... There was another little lost kid just behind us, talking to a zoo worker and another adult, and the stricken look on the boy's face made me want to cry. Oh, why did this happen?! I trusted them to come back to me!
My mind raced ahead, to the moment of confrontation with the parents of the boys; would they shout at me? Call me irresponsible? What if someone kidnapped the kids? What if they were found by another teacher or parent, thus informing the world how ineffectual a chaperone I truly was? Would I be ostrasized from future trips? I was just dialing the teacher's cell phone when one of my waiting three hollered out to the missing boys. There they both were, coming away from the end of the biggest, tallest tube slide.
Oh, my Lord, I was so relieved. The two latecomers explained that the line for the big slide had been incredibly long. We hadn't been able to see that, because the whole Kingdom is cleverly designed in a stand of tall trees, most of which had foliage now. It's a great set-up for shade, a beautiful view when you're strolling along the elevated walkways above the whole place... but when you're missing two children? It is decidedly not pretty.
Well, we held hands for awhile after that. Then, after I'd finished having a heart attack, we made our way toward the final building, first stopping at another playground with—yep, you guessed it—more of the awful, horrible, infuriating tubes where kids can climb and hide. And one of my disappearing boys did his best trick again, while my other four students and I looked in vain at every tube opening. When he did finally emerge at the top of yet another slide, I waited at the bottom to nab him. Guess what? The little twit saw me and turned around to exit another way. Suffice it to say that he got to me my favorite little buddy and hand-holder for the remainder of the day, which was thankfully wrapping up. I might have sprained a couple of his fingers when he tried to re-enter tubeland, but at that point I figured it was worth the risk; missing the bus back to school wasn't much better than losing a kid or two.
We made it back in time, and found the sidewalk littered with weary 6-year-olds. The buses came, the kids climbed on, and I left with sore feet, salty brow, and a firm decision that I would not willingly participate in this particular event again. And then I thought, What if I don't go and there aren't enough adults? What if everyone has to keep an eye on 8 or 10 kids instead of 5, all because of me?
Well, I won't think about that now. I'll just keep researching hair colors, so as to best hide the additional grey hairs that I am certain to find after yesterday's adventure. I came away not just with more greys, but also with even more respect for people who can work with large groups of small kids. God bless 'em. Every one.
And for the love of pete, don't go to the zoo in May. Or early June. Or on holidays. Unless what I've just described sounds like a grand time to you, that is.
*I've changed our team name for privacy reasons. Because I'm anal like that.
Except yesterday, I was the field trip. I went to the zoo with my son's kindergarten class. Some other insane mothers also chaperoned (one of them coming straight from a night shift—no sleep!!!) and we met the buses in the parking lot. We'd already received a list of the kids for whom we'd be responsible, and we checked names, counted heads, double-checked lunches, and set off through the zoo. We had to meet back at the entrance in under four hours, and there was much to see.
A couple of my little cuties immediately decided they wanted to stop at one of several shops; they seemed to be convinced that I'd be ponying up for everyone to purchase an overpriced item from China. Sorry, kids, not happening. I steered them clear of the first store and we made our way toward the leopard and tigers. It began to dawn on me, then, just how many people were visiting the zoo that day. Hordes of kids and a handful of adults, most in a series of matching t-shirts, were crushed up against all the fences surrounding the tiger area. People were standing several folks deep in places. It was a bit unnerving.
I tried to keep an eye on my five children, one of whom was my own; this was not an easy task in such a slew of small bodies. I'd have them in sight, and then one would be gone, then two... Sigh. When I finally was able to extricate all five of them from the mass, I called an emergency meeting. We needed a team name, I said. And some rules.
One child wanted to be the Cats, another wanted to be Orange Cubs, so we combined and became the Orange Cats* for the day. Also, I explained, there are tons of people here and I need to be able to easily see you all, at all times. That meant, I stressed, no one more than 10 feet away at a time. Perhaps I should have forced hand-holding, but honestly, it was hard to do—the day was heating up, people were sweaty, slippery little hands kept sliding away anyway, boys outnumbered girls... and I was not their teacher. They just weren't as willing to do that for me. I guess I can't blame them.
So, the Orange Cats set out once again, up the hill toward the savannas of Africa. It seemed that every display caused a slight uproar of sorts: the elephant house was too smelly, the fish in the pond were yucky, the orangutan was vigorously scratching an inappropriate area, the gorilla had some sort of visible residue on his posterior... Through it all, I kept losing my kids in the crowds, then finding them again. I can tell you in precise detail what each one of them had one because I got so good at locating the clothing. Happily, calling to the Orange Cats yielded better results than yelling out their names.
At some point, after much repetition of the phrase, "I'm hungry, I want lunch," I noticed that indeed, our bag lunches were looking worse for travel. I gave in at 11:30, and we found a large shady rock outside the aquarium and ate our sandwiches. Several people needed help opening packages, but at last we were all munching and for a moment, life was calm. We hit the head, and got drinks of water.
Refueled, we plunged into the aquarium (the building that houses the tanks, not the tank itself) and the madness resumed. Bigger crowds than ever shuffled through the dark halls, and the noise was deafening. Even if you could see your charge a few feet away, they likely couldn't hear you calling because of the throng of voices all around. We finally got out of there, passing through one of the cute zoo shops so the kids could see I was, in fact, not springing for toys for all. Once they comprehended this sad truth, they made their way outside again and we headed downhill to the polar bear exhibit. Outside the big bears' window, one of my kids announced that he was bleeding. Indeed, he was: lovely red droplets stood out on his shin. Did I have a tissue? Neosporin? Of course not. I'm the rebel mother who won't even join PTO, remember? Naturally I did not have the "good mom" tools of the trade. We found another restroom, I appointed the biggest kid as stand-in leader, and I rushed into the ladies' room to get a paper towel and soap. No towels! We're green!!! Blow your hands dry! So I had to stem the flow with toilet paper.
The boy survived and we went on. Little did I know that the worst was yet to come.
Kids Kingdom is a part of the zoo specifically designed for kids. It has play areas, animals you can pet, crazy rope bridges and climbing apparatuses. The Kingdom also has several enclosed slides at its entrance. I hate enclosed areas and have never attempted to partake in these slides, but I know that even on less crowded days, the slides are popular. On this day, they were absolutely mobbed. The children in my little group had been talking about them and couldn't wait to get there; also, I'd happily noticed that my gang was getting a bit more tired and slowing down. I made them all promise to come right back to me and not leave the slide area. (Stupid, I know—I should have handcuffed them all to me and run in the other direction.) Anyway, the Orange Cats had been listening pretty well and staying together. I found an obvious place to stand and waited for them to return to me.
Minutes passed. The two little girls showed up at the bottom of one slide, and I quickly corralled them. One time down was enough. My son showed up. And the other two remained missing.
More minutes passed. It felt like at least ten. Maybe 7 or 8 minutes? I kept checking my watch. They were gone. I had the other three sit in front of me and we all scanned the crowd. I was praying they'd show up. Where were they? What could have happened? Would they have gone on to the next area without me? After we'd all agreed to stay here until we were together again? I scrunched around in my purse, found my wallet, pulled out the number of the teacher... I had to talk to her and find out the procedure for lost kids... There was another little lost kid just behind us, talking to a zoo worker and another adult, and the stricken look on the boy's face made me want to cry. Oh, why did this happen?! I trusted them to come back to me!
My mind raced ahead, to the moment of confrontation with the parents of the boys; would they shout at me? Call me irresponsible? What if someone kidnapped the kids? What if they were found by another teacher or parent, thus informing the world how ineffectual a chaperone I truly was? Would I be ostrasized from future trips? I was just dialing the teacher's cell phone when one of my waiting three hollered out to the missing boys. There they both were, coming away from the end of the biggest, tallest tube slide.
Oh, my Lord, I was so relieved. The two latecomers explained that the line for the big slide had been incredibly long. We hadn't been able to see that, because the whole Kingdom is cleverly designed in a stand of tall trees, most of which had foliage now. It's a great set-up for shade, a beautiful view when you're strolling along the elevated walkways above the whole place... but when you're missing two children? It is decidedly not pretty.
Well, we held hands for awhile after that. Then, after I'd finished having a heart attack, we made our way toward the final building, first stopping at another playground with—yep, you guessed it—more of the awful, horrible, infuriating tubes where kids can climb and hide. And one of my disappearing boys did his best trick again, while my other four students and I looked in vain at every tube opening. When he did finally emerge at the top of yet another slide, I waited at the bottom to nab him. Guess what? The little twit saw me and turned around to exit another way. Suffice it to say that he got to me my favorite little buddy and hand-holder for the remainder of the day, which was thankfully wrapping up. I might have sprained a couple of his fingers when he tried to re-enter tubeland, but at that point I figured it was worth the risk; missing the bus back to school wasn't much better than losing a kid or two.
We made it back in time, and found the sidewalk littered with weary 6-year-olds. The buses came, the kids climbed on, and I left with sore feet, salty brow, and a firm decision that I would not willingly participate in this particular event again. And then I thought, What if I don't go and there aren't enough adults? What if everyone has to keep an eye on 8 or 10 kids instead of 5, all because of me?
Well, I won't think about that now. I'll just keep researching hair colors, so as to best hide the additional grey hairs that I am certain to find after yesterday's adventure. I came away not just with more greys, but also with even more respect for people who can work with large groups of small kids. God bless 'em. Every one.
And for the love of pete, don't go to the zoo in May. Or early June. Or on holidays. Unless what I've just described sounds like a grand time to you, that is.
*I've changed our team name for privacy reasons. Because I'm anal like that.
Thursday, May 5, 2011
How I became more stupid
Forrest Gump always believed that stupid is as stupid does... or at least his mama felt that way. I think Mama was right, but I'd take it a step further: Stupid is as stupid says. I spent a good many years of my life showing, through my words, that I wasn't very wise.
Growing up in a rather small pond, in a family of people like me, it was relatively easy to pass those early years believing that I was pretty smart. Kids can be obnoxiously confident anyway, can't they? And finding moderate to noticeable success in a school or home setting can lull a young person into feeling pretty darned special. I tried to be humble, but in my heart I didn't buy it.
I chose a less-than-large state school as my undergrad alma mater, and this experience continued to feed the fantasy that I was all that. I had to work a little harder, granted, and I had a little too much fun that first year-and-a-half and watched my grades suffer (much to my parents' chagrin and annoyance). But truthfully, even when I slouched and lazed along, I still didn't do that badly. It was more challenging, but still manageable.
Even my first professional job fell into the same camp of making me believe I was on top. I moved to a little, inbred town near Erie, and taught a variety of kids there. A few of my students were rather brilliant, but many were average; more than a handful were counting down days until their 16th birthday, when they'd proudly file their "outta here" papers and flee to the family farm. So, in comparison to the norm there? I considered myself to be somewhat intellectual. No one told me otherwise. (They were too kind, I see now.)
I had to move to a larger city, and rub elbows with some truly smart people, before I began to figure out I had quite a lot to learn... and that there was plenty I'd simply never learn. I remember this dawning of realization at one of the firms where I worked, while I watched one of my bosses work through an extremely complex piece of information. He sketched it, he explained it, he fleshed out the physics behind it. And I took it all in, gleaning simultaneously that I could never have made it so clear and easy to grasp. I simply did not have that sort of brain power.
There were others at that company, and many since, who have left me with my figurative mouth agape. Great artists and performers populate the group, of course, but more often it's made up of that rare breed of person who oozes grey cell greatness—the people who really understand the stock market and can simply explain why the housing market collapsed, the folks who truly comprehend world economics and the shortcomings of every proposed solution, the people who can describe with perfect verbiage how one splits a cell or creates a new combustion system or safely constructs a tall tower. I have learned, by shutting up and listening, just how much I really lack.
The longer I live, the more I get it: I am not so smart. Actually, I am quite dull. And the more I look for the strengths of others, the more I find them. Even when a strength isn't uniquely intellectual, it usually still has great merit. I know one guy, an everyday guy who isn't the brightest bulb in the bunch, but you know what? He is absolutely fantastic at getting people to feel close to each other and open up; he is great at sensing when a person needs a community around him. And there's one lady who seems so fluffy and flighty, but who can deliver a word of truth in such a way that the recipient actually listens and considers the point instead of taking offense.
The list goes on and on: A neighbor's daughter who is mentally challenged but knows instantly when she confronts a lie; a fellow who is jovial and somewhat goofy, yet can tear apart any machine and put it back together better than before. One of the smartest guys I knew was my dad's mechanic, who repaired engines by ear, and also worked beautifully with wood; I believe he even made his own knives. When I cleaned houses for that awful two weeks last fall, the guy who was training me was a fantastic cleaner. He knew how best to do it, how to work quickly and efficiently, how to keep track of every tool and spray bottle... it was awesome. My husband is great at planting and cultivating things, and not because he studied it exclusively but just because he loves it and learns a tip or two from every gardener he meets. Some people are just born problem solvers, and we all should learn whom they are and admit their prowess and our own shortcomings.
The last time I had this overwhelming feeling, I was attending a luncheon with Todd for new employees at his current university workplace. We listened to a speaker talk about his superior, and how she'd created a new type of missile; we learned that a fellow employee had been the creator of the strange little code word system that I use every time I leave a comment on someone's blog. The other fellow at our table mentioned how he traveled a lot to train others worldwide to use the school's software. I sat unobtrusively, hoping no one noticed my sad state of brainlessness.
It's amazing how stupid I became once I stopped telling everyone how smart I was. It's also pretty embarrassing. To anyone I've ever bored with my own praise, I am sorry. Please forgive me.
Happily, one of the many perks of being a Christian is that my lack of impressive cells is not just tolerated, but sometimes actually welcomed. We are encouraged to do things like be still and be more like a child. I struggle with the stillness, but the childlike acceptance and questioning less? That I can handle.
Growing up in a rather small pond, in a family of people like me, it was relatively easy to pass those early years believing that I was pretty smart. Kids can be obnoxiously confident anyway, can't they? And finding moderate to noticeable success in a school or home setting can lull a young person into feeling pretty darned special. I tried to be humble, but in my heart I didn't buy it.
I chose a less-than-large state school as my undergrad alma mater, and this experience continued to feed the fantasy that I was all that. I had to work a little harder, granted, and I had a little too much fun that first year-and-a-half and watched my grades suffer (much to my parents' chagrin and annoyance). But truthfully, even when I slouched and lazed along, I still didn't do that badly. It was more challenging, but still manageable.
Even my first professional job fell into the same camp of making me believe I was on top. I moved to a little, inbred town near Erie, and taught a variety of kids there. A few of my students were rather brilliant, but many were average; more than a handful were counting down days until their 16th birthday, when they'd proudly file their "outta here" papers and flee to the family farm. So, in comparison to the norm there? I considered myself to be somewhat intellectual. No one told me otherwise. (They were too kind, I see now.)
I had to move to a larger city, and rub elbows with some truly smart people, before I began to figure out I had quite a lot to learn... and that there was plenty I'd simply never learn. I remember this dawning of realization at one of the firms where I worked, while I watched one of my bosses work through an extremely complex piece of information. He sketched it, he explained it, he fleshed out the physics behind it. And I took it all in, gleaning simultaneously that I could never have made it so clear and easy to grasp. I simply did not have that sort of brain power.
There were others at that company, and many since, who have left me with my figurative mouth agape. Great artists and performers populate the group, of course, but more often it's made up of that rare breed of person who oozes grey cell greatness—the people who really understand the stock market and can simply explain why the housing market collapsed, the folks who truly comprehend world economics and the shortcomings of every proposed solution, the people who can describe with perfect verbiage how one splits a cell or creates a new combustion system or safely constructs a tall tower. I have learned, by shutting up and listening, just how much I really lack.
The longer I live, the more I get it: I am not so smart. Actually, I am quite dull. And the more I look for the strengths of others, the more I find them. Even when a strength isn't uniquely intellectual, it usually still has great merit. I know one guy, an everyday guy who isn't the brightest bulb in the bunch, but you know what? He is absolutely fantastic at getting people to feel close to each other and open up; he is great at sensing when a person needs a community around him. And there's one lady who seems so fluffy and flighty, but who can deliver a word of truth in such a way that the recipient actually listens and considers the point instead of taking offense.
The list goes on and on: A neighbor's daughter who is mentally challenged but knows instantly when she confronts a lie; a fellow who is jovial and somewhat goofy, yet can tear apart any machine and put it back together better than before. One of the smartest guys I knew was my dad's mechanic, who repaired engines by ear, and also worked beautifully with wood; I believe he even made his own knives. When I cleaned houses for that awful two weeks last fall, the guy who was training me was a fantastic cleaner. He knew how best to do it, how to work quickly and efficiently, how to keep track of every tool and spray bottle... it was awesome. My husband is great at planting and cultivating things, and not because he studied it exclusively but just because he loves it and learns a tip or two from every gardener he meets. Some people are just born problem solvers, and we all should learn whom they are and admit their prowess and our own shortcomings.
The last time I had this overwhelming feeling, I was attending a luncheon with Todd for new employees at his current university workplace. We listened to a speaker talk about his superior, and how she'd created a new type of missile; we learned that a fellow employee had been the creator of the strange little code word system that I use every time I leave a comment on someone's blog. The other fellow at our table mentioned how he traveled a lot to train others worldwide to use the school's software. I sat unobtrusively, hoping no one noticed my sad state of brainlessness.
It's amazing how stupid I became once I stopped telling everyone how smart I was. It's also pretty embarrassing. To anyone I've ever bored with my own praise, I am sorry. Please forgive me.
Happily, one of the many perks of being a Christian is that my lack of impressive cells is not just tolerated, but sometimes actually welcomed. We are encouraged to do things like be still and be more like a child. I struggle with the stillness, but the childlike acceptance and questioning less? That I can handle.
Monday, August 30, 2010
Why are my eyes stinging?
Surely you must know that this breaks my heart.
Into sharp fragments.
That keep poking me on the inside of my chest.
Let us speak of it no more.
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
Medication of the young, unformed masses
I found out recently that a young child we know is now being medicated for an attention deficit issue.
I really object to that. Medication in anyone under the age of at least 12 should, in my uninformed opinion, be an absolute last resort. We don't know the long-term effects of this stuff. It's still very much being studied. The results down the road are a mystery. Meds can change a child's personality completely; they're far too available to kids today, and they're being pushed by everyone from school officials to therapists to counselors to doctors. Medicine in general seems to be pushed. I've already touched on that issue here; I am pretty positive that advertising any medication, period, is wrong—let alone advertising in family magazines for childrens' meds. Sick. In a bad way.
There are ways around attention deficits. Here's a thought: turn off the tube. Yep, it does not help. Super-short commercials, fast-paced and brightly colored cartoons, eye-popping special effects set to the tune of booming soundtracks... None of those things will help your child learn to focus and concentrate better. The real world does not even remotely resemble Sesame Street, nor a video game.
Even if there is a genuine learning disability present, I am honestly pretty certain that any of those problems would be lessened if the parent(s) involved would give a better example of how to slow down and think about something instead of buying some new distraction. For the kid or the parent? It doesn't matter, honestly. The lesson is internalized equally by both. Sad? Bored? Feeling unappreciated? Buy something new! Waste money on a temporary pleasure! Which, truly, seems to be what medicine has become: a new distraction, a temporary escape from the reality.
There are teaching methods devoted to helping kids learn how to train their brains. The first lesson that would help, though, is simple discipline. Do a chore, even if you don't want to. Go to bed on time, and get up at a decent hour—the same hour each day. Eat meals at roughly the same times each day. And oh, by the way, if the food is prepared at home, and eaten at a table with the family, that might help. Oops, there goes that whole "setting a good example" problem... because we're all so stinkin' busy keeping up with technology and cars and toys that we don't have time to cook and eat together, do we? It's so uncool.
When we medicate children who, for the most part, need to be told "No" and have a few boundaries established, we are doing those children a huge disservice. We are training them up in the American Way: take pills if life isn't easy. Don't try to forge a better path, don't try to alter lazy behaviors, don't change anything—just get a pill and take it until you feel better. There will always be a new pill, right? Why should we seek a long-lasting, permanent fix for our problems? Just pop a capsule and go distract yourself with meaningless diversions.
Even better if the child carries that lesson into adulthood, because when this same method is employed by grown-ups, there are far more profits. In a recent talk with a relative, she informed me that most of her comfortable, well-to-do friends are popping some sort of anti-depressant; she, alone, is the unmedicated one. What is wrong with this picture? Is self-medication the only way our spoiled, overly comfortable culture can stand itself? Is this the answer instead of work, self-control, and humility?
There are very few days anymore when I don't daydream about leaving the whole mess and going to hide in the mountains. I know there would still be problems. Still, I think I'd prefer problems that can be solved by effort, common sense, and faith. I know there are some exceptions to the rule, some genuine cases where medication can really change the life of a child, or an adult, with a serious issue that impedes his or her ability to function. However, I stand firm in my belief that we've brought many of these problems on ourselves. The kid and I went to the public library today, and that visit pretty much underlined my concern about today's lackluster parents and their unwillingness to lay down rules and consequences for their kids. The children ran wild, yelled, threw things, stepped on books instead of reading them*, and there sat the moms and dads, on their overweight cans, offering lukewarm disciplinary suggestions from a distance instead of kicking backsides as needed. That would have been too much trouble, you see: real parenting requires relentless effort, paying attention, and self-discipline. That isn't going to happen.
I ponder the start of kindergarten in a few weeks. I pray it will look different from today's scene at the library. But in my heart, I know; those same kids, those same parents, will likely bring about many of those same pathetic results. Why are we so afraid of our children? Of saying no? Of cracking down? Why?
And when will people realize that pills will never take the proper place of parenting?
* The really sad part is that every time my boy and I sit and actually read a book in the library, at least one other child wanders over and peers over our shoulders, listening in, stealing the book experience. How sad is that? In a library, home of the "libre," no one is actually reading books. What the hell is going on here?
I really object to that. Medication in anyone under the age of at least 12 should, in my uninformed opinion, be an absolute last resort. We don't know the long-term effects of this stuff. It's still very much being studied. The results down the road are a mystery. Meds can change a child's personality completely; they're far too available to kids today, and they're being pushed by everyone from school officials to therapists to counselors to doctors. Medicine in general seems to be pushed. I've already touched on that issue here; I am pretty positive that advertising any medication, period, is wrong—let alone advertising in family magazines for childrens' meds. Sick. In a bad way.
There are ways around attention deficits. Here's a thought: turn off the tube. Yep, it does not help. Super-short commercials, fast-paced and brightly colored cartoons, eye-popping special effects set to the tune of booming soundtracks... None of those things will help your child learn to focus and concentrate better. The real world does not even remotely resemble Sesame Street, nor a video game.
Even if there is a genuine learning disability present, I am honestly pretty certain that any of those problems would be lessened if the parent(s) involved would give a better example of how to slow down and think about something instead of buying some new distraction. For the kid or the parent? It doesn't matter, honestly. The lesson is internalized equally by both. Sad? Bored? Feeling unappreciated? Buy something new! Waste money on a temporary pleasure! Which, truly, seems to be what medicine has become: a new distraction, a temporary escape from the reality.
There are teaching methods devoted to helping kids learn how to train their brains. The first lesson that would help, though, is simple discipline. Do a chore, even if you don't want to. Go to bed on time, and get up at a decent hour—the same hour each day. Eat meals at roughly the same times each day. And oh, by the way, if the food is prepared at home, and eaten at a table with the family, that might help. Oops, there goes that whole "setting a good example" problem... because we're all so stinkin' busy keeping up with technology and cars and toys that we don't have time to cook and eat together, do we? It's so uncool.
When we medicate children who, for the most part, need to be told "No" and have a few boundaries established, we are doing those children a huge disservice. We are training them up in the American Way: take pills if life isn't easy. Don't try to forge a better path, don't try to alter lazy behaviors, don't change anything—just get a pill and take it until you feel better. There will always be a new pill, right? Why should we seek a long-lasting, permanent fix for our problems? Just pop a capsule and go distract yourself with meaningless diversions.
Even better if the child carries that lesson into adulthood, because when this same method is employed by grown-ups, there are far more profits. In a recent talk with a relative, she informed me that most of her comfortable, well-to-do friends are popping some sort of anti-depressant; she, alone, is the unmedicated one. What is wrong with this picture? Is self-medication the only way our spoiled, overly comfortable culture can stand itself? Is this the answer instead of work, self-control, and humility?
There are very few days anymore when I don't daydream about leaving the whole mess and going to hide in the mountains. I know there would still be problems. Still, I think I'd prefer problems that can be solved by effort, common sense, and faith. I know there are some exceptions to the rule, some genuine cases where medication can really change the life of a child, or an adult, with a serious issue that impedes his or her ability to function. However, I stand firm in my belief that we've brought many of these problems on ourselves. The kid and I went to the public library today, and that visit pretty much underlined my concern about today's lackluster parents and their unwillingness to lay down rules and consequences for their kids. The children ran wild, yelled, threw things, stepped on books instead of reading them*, and there sat the moms and dads, on their overweight cans, offering lukewarm disciplinary suggestions from a distance instead of kicking backsides as needed. That would have been too much trouble, you see: real parenting requires relentless effort, paying attention, and self-discipline. That isn't going to happen.
I ponder the start of kindergarten in a few weeks. I pray it will look different from today's scene at the library. But in my heart, I know; those same kids, those same parents, will likely bring about many of those same pathetic results. Why are we so afraid of our children? Of saying no? Of cracking down? Why?
And when will people realize that pills will never take the proper place of parenting?
* The really sad part is that every time my boy and I sit and actually read a book in the library, at least one other child wanders over and peers over our shoulders, listening in, stealing the book experience. How sad is that? In a library, home of the "libre," no one is actually reading books. What the hell is going on here?
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
No one is KISSing these days
warning: rant to follow, which may or may not be caused by the fact that I had to pick up my son's kindergarten registration papers this week
KISS stands for Keep It Simple, Stupid. I think I learned that approach to delivering information while I was teaching school years ago, and by golly, it continues to be more useful every day. When I remember to keep it simple, I am never sorry. People have short attention spans that grow shorter every day, they are accustomed to quick changes of pace and lots of pretty graphics and shallow information... we've all been groomed of late to be ADHD, it seems. So keeping information simple just makes sense.
But honestly, I always thought that keeping it simple just made sense. Why do more than necessary? Why confuse people when you needn't? Although I've been out of the field of education until recently, now I find myself on the fringes of that whole strange world of imparting knowledge—and I am so disappointed in the way it has plummeted since I left.
In the hoity-toity districts north of our fair city, now there is often no lower option that pre-algebra in 7th grade. Huh?! Are all the 7th graders of the area ready for pre-algebra in 7th grade? I think not. Was I? Doubtful, although I must have been introduced to the concepts at that age all those years ago because I was, indeed, taking algebra in 8th grade. Which led to my near-demise in 9th grade geometry...but that's another story. Seriously, though, it's not just the higher maths that are being pushed. I have recently assisted at least five 9th and 10th graders in nearby school districts, all of them average students, all of them saddled with full-tilt research papers that include rubrics and point breakdowns and lists of requirements that I honestly feel are more appropriate for honors English juniors and seniors, if that.
People. Our public education systems stink. We are falling behind every other modern country I can think of. Yet we insist on pushing our students harder, faster, sooner than before. It's not working. Just because you call every student gifted will not make it so. Even worse, this push for higher-level thinking at an earlier age has resulted in the near-abandonment of the basics. Apparently, the basics are just not flashy enough for us to press upon many students. Times tables? Pshaw. Just use your calculator. Subject-verb agreement? That's why we have Microsoft Word, isn't it?! And spelling... don't even get me started.
I feel sick when I attempt to help a student with the basics and see how that student has slipped through the cracks. I am equally sick as I walk a kid who doesn't know a run-on sentence when it slaps him to maneuver his awkward, fumbling way through a research paper full of citations and defenses. Where is the KISS method these days? Why are we teaching advanced MLA research methods to 9th graders who are barely passing their classes? Why must the entire world be groomed for college? What is wrong with trades, with labor, with jobs that will NEVER require any serious knowledge of algebraic substitutions and pi and a works cited page and gerunds?
We are all getting so damned clever that no one knows how to tie his shoes, let alone read a clock with a face, and it's making me want to retreat to a homestead in Alaska.
When I taught English, so long ago, I was encouraged by my district to attend the annual Pennsylvania state writing assessment scoring seminars. I forget the actual title of those assemblies, but they were filled with local PA English teachers who had volunteered to come assess real writing samples of students. We were all gathered together, then taught a 6-point scoring rubric, and lastly we graded papers. And we graded more papers. Then, we graded some papers. But my point is this: the vast majority of the time, we all agreed within one point on the appropriate score for a given writing sample. We'd been taught how to do it, we applied the knowledge, and we all could identify "good" writing. We knew when the piece was effective, when it had succeeded. We did not require fancy grading systems or long, drawn-out explanations of what we should identify as high quality. We came to recognize it very quickly, all of us. There was by and large agreement. We knew with very little training when the writing worked and when it didn't.
So, why all the complications now? Why the complexities? Most of the students I see would benefit greatly from a huge helping of common sense in their teachers. Most of these kids today need to know how to figure out the most basic mathematical problem, percentages, division problems. They need to be able to express themselves on paper, clearly and concisely. They need to learn clarity and the value of a well-turned, grammatically correct phrase. They would benefit greatly from more practice making a simple point, an opinion even, with accuracy and skill. They would be better for having learned to crack a book instead of searching endlessly through feeble online resources. Few will ever require the ridiculous level of detail and pomp that is already being asked of them in their first year of high school.
For goodness sake, what is wrong with people? I want America to be smart and educated, too—but mostly I want the kids today to be able to hold a conversation without a *!?#@ cell phone in their hands. It would be a bonus if their end of the conversation made sense and consisted of lucid thoughts expressed in complete sentences.
I'm not down on the kids, honestly. I think we've steered them wrong by pushing them to do too much, too soon. Let's start with tying shoes, then move onto clocks that are round, and after that we'll divvy up pieces of pizza and talk about fractions. We must, we simply must, give these children of ours a real foundation for learning—the type of learning that will enable logical problem-solving when they grow up.
Because then, you see, they'll have to figure out a way to pay that fool Obama's bill.
KISS stands for Keep It Simple, Stupid. I think I learned that approach to delivering information while I was teaching school years ago, and by golly, it continues to be more useful every day. When I remember to keep it simple, I am never sorry. People have short attention spans that grow shorter every day, they are accustomed to quick changes of pace and lots of pretty graphics and shallow information... we've all been groomed of late to be ADHD, it seems. So keeping information simple just makes sense.
But honestly, I always thought that keeping it simple just made sense. Why do more than necessary? Why confuse people when you needn't? Although I've been out of the field of education until recently, now I find myself on the fringes of that whole strange world of imparting knowledge—and I am so disappointed in the way it has plummeted since I left.
In the hoity-toity districts north of our fair city, now there is often no lower option that pre-algebra in 7th grade. Huh?! Are all the 7th graders of the area ready for pre-algebra in 7th grade? I think not. Was I? Doubtful, although I must have been introduced to the concepts at that age all those years ago because I was, indeed, taking algebra in 8th grade. Which led to my near-demise in 9th grade geometry...but that's another story. Seriously, though, it's not just the higher maths that are being pushed. I have recently assisted at least five 9th and 10th graders in nearby school districts, all of them average students, all of them saddled with full-tilt research papers that include rubrics and point breakdowns and lists of requirements that I honestly feel are more appropriate for honors English juniors and seniors, if that.
People. Our public education systems stink. We are falling behind every other modern country I can think of. Yet we insist on pushing our students harder, faster, sooner than before. It's not working. Just because you call every student gifted will not make it so. Even worse, this push for higher-level thinking at an earlier age has resulted in the near-abandonment of the basics. Apparently, the basics are just not flashy enough for us to press upon many students. Times tables? Pshaw. Just use your calculator. Subject-verb agreement? That's why we have Microsoft Word, isn't it?! And spelling... don't even get me started.
I feel sick when I attempt to help a student with the basics and see how that student has slipped through the cracks. I am equally sick as I walk a kid who doesn't know a run-on sentence when it slaps him to maneuver his awkward, fumbling way through a research paper full of citations and defenses. Where is the KISS method these days? Why are we teaching advanced MLA research methods to 9th graders who are barely passing their classes? Why must the entire world be groomed for college? What is wrong with trades, with labor, with jobs that will NEVER require any serious knowledge of algebraic substitutions and pi and a works cited page and gerunds?
We are all getting so damned clever that no one knows how to tie his shoes, let alone read a clock with a face, and it's making me want to retreat to a homestead in Alaska.
When I taught English, so long ago, I was encouraged by my district to attend the annual Pennsylvania state writing assessment scoring seminars. I forget the actual title of those assemblies, but they were filled with local PA English teachers who had volunteered to come assess real writing samples of students. We were all gathered together, then taught a 6-point scoring rubric, and lastly we graded papers. And we graded more papers. Then, we graded some papers. But my point is this: the vast majority of the time, we all agreed within one point on the appropriate score for a given writing sample. We'd been taught how to do it, we applied the knowledge, and we all could identify "good" writing. We knew when the piece was effective, when it had succeeded. We did not require fancy grading systems or long, drawn-out explanations of what we should identify as high quality. We came to recognize it very quickly, all of us. There was by and large agreement. We knew with very little training when the writing worked and when it didn't.
So, why all the complications now? Why the complexities? Most of the students I see would benefit greatly from a huge helping of common sense in their teachers. Most of these kids today need to know how to figure out the most basic mathematical problem, percentages, division problems. They need to be able to express themselves on paper, clearly and concisely. They need to learn clarity and the value of a well-turned, grammatically correct phrase. They would benefit greatly from more practice making a simple point, an opinion even, with accuracy and skill. They would be better for having learned to crack a book instead of searching endlessly through feeble online resources. Few will ever require the ridiculous level of detail and pomp that is already being asked of them in their first year of high school.
For goodness sake, what is wrong with people? I want America to be smart and educated, too—but mostly I want the kids today to be able to hold a conversation without a *!?#@ cell phone in their hands. It would be a bonus if their end of the conversation made sense and consisted of lucid thoughts expressed in complete sentences.
I'm not down on the kids, honestly. I think we've steered them wrong by pushing them to do too much, too soon. Let's start with tying shoes, then move onto clocks that are round, and after that we'll divvy up pieces of pizza and talk about fractions. We must, we simply must, give these children of ours a real foundation for learning—the type of learning that will enable logical problem-solving when they grow up.
Because then, you see, they'll have to figure out a way to pay that fool Obama's bill.
Saturday, May 23, 2009
Reading, writing, and…retention
It’s the end of the school year, and even for preschoolers, that means special events, performances, and more parental involvement. Recently, I found myself at my son’s school, helping to prepare for a special reading-focused day of fun, games, and—of course—books. I was teamed with a few other moms who’d agreed to come in and help prepare for reading day. One other woman’s boy was almost the same age as Marcus, and we two found ourselves paired up, cutting hundreds of strips of crepe paper to the same length. (Doorway and window streamers, of course.)
There we labored over a stubby preschool-height table, trimming strip after strip after strip, and searching for something to chat about. We ended up talking about next year. Both our boys will return to this school for another year of preschool, Lord willing and the creek don’t rise. And after that? This kind lady informed me that she and her husband had already pretty much decided that their child would go into a pre-kindergarten class instead of progressing to kindergarten.
Why? I asked. Well, she explained, they’d done that with their daughter, and she was in kindergarten now and was doing very well. People had thought they were crazy, the teachers had not recommended holding the girl back, she was well within the age limits required for kindergarten admission, they probably could have sent her, but kids learn so much so soon these days… They wanted their kids to have the advantage. “But it’s not for sports or anything like that!” she smiled. I commented that I would wait until Marcus was closer to the mark before we made that call, and internally, I was shaking my head vigorously and deciding without hesitation that we would not take such a step unless strongly encouraged to do so by my son’s teachers—and maybe not even then.
What are we doing to our kids? I think of children a century ago, how it wasn’t unusual for many kids to stop attending school after 8th grade if not sooner. I believe it was common for many of the boys to be immediately apprenticed with their future employer. Probably plenty of them were being “men” by fairly young ages. I’d venture to guess that more than a few were breadwinners, husbands, and fathers well before age 20, willingly and by choice. And the girls? I’d guess that their paths were similarly responsible if single—working in homes, businesses, schools, factories—and if married, they were likely rearing their own families.
Nowadays, we delay the maturation of our children, supposedly for their benefit. Retaining a child in school back may be a wise move for some parents, when most people who know the child agree that this is for the best. But what about holding a kid back just because he doesn’t like to sit still? What about holding him back to ensure he’s not the smallest or youngest kid in his class? And what of those parents who do hold back children for sport-competition reasons? We know they’re out there. The end result is a lot of older, bigger kids in schools, advancing ages in graduates (high school and college), and increasingly late starts in real life.
When is a kid no longer a kid? Several years of trade school, college, maybe grad school, travel and volunteer opportunities, etc. allow a kid to remain fundamentally a kid for far too many years. When the president (in name, at least) starts suggesting work opportunities for young adults—and I believe he labeled young adults as up to age 24—that makes me feel a bit edgy. 24 is a young adult? I thought young adults were pre-teens and young teenagers. That’s what the literary market calls them, and the movie industry…
I realize that people live longer now. I am fully aware that the job market is quite different from what it was in the industrial age. I know that some fields of study require many years of education. All of that is inarguable, and none of it is inherently bad. But. Does that mean we should choose to restrain our children so they are better fit to handle the coming responsibilities? It seems to me that our reduced expectations are being met—as they always are. Lower the bar and watch the standards fall. Raise the age of adulthood, and watch the kids cling to childhood. The fact that most middle- and upper-class children in America are getting everything they want, too soon and with very little effort, isn’t helping encourage adulthood, either.
So, that’s what I’ve been pondering since I talked to that other mom. I was the 3rd youngest kid in my class, as far as I know. Did that ruin my life? Cause me to fall behind? Make me feel inferior? No. I had a crappy year of kindergarten, and that was pretty much it. We all dealt with the challenges of each grade level, and for the most part we met them. As far as the kids who didn’t meet them, guess what: they likely wouldn’t have met them even if they’d been delayed for a year, or two for that matter. The problem wasn’t their ability, nor their maturity—it rarely is. And yes, I speak from experience: 6 years spent teaching helped clarify the real reasons that kids fail a grade.
Maybe I’m being unreasonable. Yet—since most teens spend half of their exhalant breath declaring how grown-up they are, and the vast majority of them engage in adult activities, perhaps we should stop encouraging them to remain children. And we can begin by allowing our little ones to move toward the coming educational challenges on schedule. Yes, there are exceptions; there have always been, and that is as it should be. But exceptions are called such because they are exceptions from the rule. Let’s keep it that way.
There we labored over a stubby preschool-height table, trimming strip after strip after strip, and searching for something to chat about. We ended up talking about next year. Both our boys will return to this school for another year of preschool, Lord willing and the creek don’t rise. And after that? This kind lady informed me that she and her husband had already pretty much decided that their child would go into a pre-kindergarten class instead of progressing to kindergarten.
Why? I asked. Well, she explained, they’d done that with their daughter, and she was in kindergarten now and was doing very well. People had thought they were crazy, the teachers had not recommended holding the girl back, she was well within the age limits required for kindergarten admission, they probably could have sent her, but kids learn so much so soon these days… They wanted their kids to have the advantage. “But it’s not for sports or anything like that!” she smiled. I commented that I would wait until Marcus was closer to the mark before we made that call, and internally, I was shaking my head vigorously and deciding without hesitation that we would not take such a step unless strongly encouraged to do so by my son’s teachers—and maybe not even then.
What are we doing to our kids? I think of children a century ago, how it wasn’t unusual for many kids to stop attending school after 8th grade if not sooner. I believe it was common for many of the boys to be immediately apprenticed with their future employer. Probably plenty of them were being “men” by fairly young ages. I’d venture to guess that more than a few were breadwinners, husbands, and fathers well before age 20, willingly and by choice. And the girls? I’d guess that their paths were similarly responsible if single—working in homes, businesses, schools, factories—and if married, they were likely rearing their own families.
Nowadays, we delay the maturation of our children, supposedly for their benefit. Retaining a child in school back may be a wise move for some parents, when most people who know the child agree that this is for the best. But what about holding a kid back just because he doesn’t like to sit still? What about holding him back to ensure he’s not the smallest or youngest kid in his class? And what of those parents who do hold back children for sport-competition reasons? We know they’re out there. The end result is a lot of older, bigger kids in schools, advancing ages in graduates (high school and college), and increasingly late starts in real life.
When is a kid no longer a kid? Several years of trade school, college, maybe grad school, travel and volunteer opportunities, etc. allow a kid to remain fundamentally a kid for far too many years. When the president (in name, at least) starts suggesting work opportunities for young adults—and I believe he labeled young adults as up to age 24—that makes me feel a bit edgy. 24 is a young adult? I thought young adults were pre-teens and young teenagers. That’s what the literary market calls them, and the movie industry…
I realize that people live longer now. I am fully aware that the job market is quite different from what it was in the industrial age. I know that some fields of study require many years of education. All of that is inarguable, and none of it is inherently bad. But. Does that mean we should choose to restrain our children so they are better fit to handle the coming responsibilities? It seems to me that our reduced expectations are being met—as they always are. Lower the bar and watch the standards fall. Raise the age of adulthood, and watch the kids cling to childhood. The fact that most middle- and upper-class children in America are getting everything they want, too soon and with very little effort, isn’t helping encourage adulthood, either.
So, that’s what I’ve been pondering since I talked to that other mom. I was the 3rd youngest kid in my class, as far as I know. Did that ruin my life? Cause me to fall behind? Make me feel inferior? No. I had a crappy year of kindergarten, and that was pretty much it. We all dealt with the challenges of each grade level, and for the most part we met them. As far as the kids who didn’t meet them, guess what: they likely wouldn’t have met them even if they’d been delayed for a year, or two for that matter. The problem wasn’t their ability, nor their maturity—it rarely is. And yes, I speak from experience: 6 years spent teaching helped clarify the real reasons that kids fail a grade.
Maybe I’m being unreasonable. Yet—since most teens spend half of their exhalant breath declaring how grown-up they are, and the vast majority of them engage in adult activities, perhaps we should stop encouraging them to remain children. And we can begin by allowing our little ones to move toward the coming educational challenges on schedule. Yes, there are exceptions; there have always been, and that is as it should be. But exceptions are called such because they are exceptions from the rule. Let’s keep it that way.
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Boy, I really stink at this mom thing
Sometimes, I just hope that God isn’t watching me too carefully. (Yeah, I know He is, but just humor me for a minute or two. It makes me feel a bit less guilty.)
It’s Day 5 of my current illness, a strange conglomerate of sore throat, cold, cough, and sinus issues. I am tired, still sick, and generally very irritable. I want to sleep, and sleep some more, but I can’t breathe when I sleep, so it’s often an exercise in frustration and futility. Mostly, I want quiet. And I have an almost-4-year-old who won’t stop talking. So, quiet has not been had.
And today was my talkative darling's Valentine’s Day party at preschool. I had made invitations, he had helped, we’d taped SweetTart hearts to them, we’d gotten fruit and veggies to take into his class, etc. Mostly, I couldn’t wait to drop him off so I could come home and sleep a bit. In silence. Sitting up in the comfy chair so I could take in breath while sleeping. Ahhhhhhhhhh. Doesn’t that sound nice?
Until it all fell into jeopardy; my son told me his stomach hurt this morning. He visited the bathroom upon my recommendation, had success, said he felt better, and voila, we were on our way with bags to preschool. Except. Then his stomach hurt again. Then, as we drove, he wanted to not go in, and to just return home and play.
This is where it gets ugly, folks. This is where I’m hoping some lovely angel was singing to God really loudly and drowning out the honking, sniffling, crabby voice that emerged from my mouth as I had a little “talking to” with my kid:
“Okay, now you understand, if you’re sick, there’s no rowdy playing. If your tummy hurts, you will act like a kid whose tummy hurts, and stay still, and lie on the couch, and NOT jump off the stool 50 times. Because Mommy really needs this time to get things done.”
“Okay, I know. I won’t jump off the stool.”
“That’s right, because sick kids don’t jump off stools. If you’re well enough to play hard, then you’re well enough to go to preschool.”
“Okay, I know.”
We drove to school, every void in the car filled with his happy little voice; then we dropped the things off at school, and I gave him another chance. Still he complained about the tummy. I reminded him again of the stark truth of illness: “Remember, this is not going to be special play time with Mommy. Mommy is still sick too. And Mommy needs to get things done. Okay?”
“Okay.”
We left the school parking lot, on to the library, and I parked and slid our books into the book drop. We started to drive away. And then he blindsided me: “I think I feel well enough to go.”
“Now you’re just playing head games with me. Are you trying to make me angry?” Yes, I really said that to a 3 1/2-year-old. I did. And it gets worse. He said,
“No, Mommy. I can jump off stools now.”
“So what do you want to do?” I asked this, as we were driving in the opposite direction, still not far from the school, but moving away from it. (I didn’t ask it in a very nice voice, I’ll admit.)
“I want to go.”
“Are you SURE?”
“Yes, I want to go.”
“Fine.” I turned onto a side road, into someone’s driveway, redirected the car, and started back in the direction of the school. And then he said,
“Hurry up.”
Well, people, I freaked. I said, “Don’t you ever tell me to hurry up, you ungrateful little child! I don’t ever want to hear those words come out of your mouth, especially after you’ve been playing mind games with me!” Without a moment’s hesitation, my sweet little boy burst into tears, of course, and they rivuleted their way down his soft cheeks, and at first I was righteously indignant and enraged, and then I felt bad. And then, worse. He probably did have a stomachache. It probably did stop aching. Even if it didn’t, I shouldn’t have yelled at him like that. And mostly, I'm ashamed to say, I thought Oh CRAP, what are those teachers going to think when they see his little reddish wet eyes? I almost turned around and made him come home anyway, but the thought of him wailing about missing the party and me being sick and irritable and a wretch in general was too much to bear. We drove back to school, and I was calm by then: I gave him one last option out in case he was still feeling ill. But the poor kid was probably terrified at the thought of being home alone with me—he opted to go in. So I walked him in.
And I drove home, once again wondering what in the world God was thinking when he gave me this innocent little soul to ruin and rankle. Good grief, I’m not cut out for this.
There, I’ve confessed my ugly moment for today. If there are more to come, I’ll confess them in private and spare you the pain of bearing witness.
The worst part is that now, I feel too awful to nap.
It’s Day 5 of my current illness, a strange conglomerate of sore throat, cold, cough, and sinus issues. I am tired, still sick, and generally very irritable. I want to sleep, and sleep some more, but I can’t breathe when I sleep, so it’s often an exercise in frustration and futility. Mostly, I want quiet. And I have an almost-4-year-old who won’t stop talking. So, quiet has not been had.
And today was my talkative darling's Valentine’s Day party at preschool. I had made invitations, he had helped, we’d taped SweetTart hearts to them, we’d gotten fruit and veggies to take into his class, etc. Mostly, I couldn’t wait to drop him off so I could come home and sleep a bit. In silence. Sitting up in the comfy chair so I could take in breath while sleeping. Ahhhhhhhhhh. Doesn’t that sound nice?
Until it all fell into jeopardy; my son told me his stomach hurt this morning. He visited the bathroom upon my recommendation, had success, said he felt better, and voila, we were on our way with bags to preschool. Except. Then his stomach hurt again. Then, as we drove, he wanted to not go in, and to just return home and play.
This is where it gets ugly, folks. This is where I’m hoping some lovely angel was singing to God really loudly and drowning out the honking, sniffling, crabby voice that emerged from my mouth as I had a little “talking to” with my kid:
“Okay, now you understand, if you’re sick, there’s no rowdy playing. If your tummy hurts, you will act like a kid whose tummy hurts, and stay still, and lie on the couch, and NOT jump off the stool 50 times. Because Mommy really needs this time to get things done.”
“Okay, I know. I won’t jump off the stool.”
“That’s right, because sick kids don’t jump off stools. If you’re well enough to play hard, then you’re well enough to go to preschool.”
“Okay, I know.”
We drove to school, every void in the car filled with his happy little voice; then we dropped the things off at school, and I gave him another chance. Still he complained about the tummy. I reminded him again of the stark truth of illness: “Remember, this is not going to be special play time with Mommy. Mommy is still sick too. And Mommy needs to get things done. Okay?”
“Okay.”
We left the school parking lot, on to the library, and I parked and slid our books into the book drop. We started to drive away. And then he blindsided me: “I think I feel well enough to go.”
“Now you’re just playing head games with me. Are you trying to make me angry?” Yes, I really said that to a 3 1/2-year-old. I did. And it gets worse. He said,
“No, Mommy. I can jump off stools now.”
“So what do you want to do?” I asked this, as we were driving in the opposite direction, still not far from the school, but moving away from it. (I didn’t ask it in a very nice voice, I’ll admit.)
“I want to go.”
“Are you SURE?”
“Yes, I want to go.”
“Fine.” I turned onto a side road, into someone’s driveway, redirected the car, and started back in the direction of the school. And then he said,
“Hurry up.”
Well, people, I freaked. I said, “Don’t you ever tell me to hurry up, you ungrateful little child! I don’t ever want to hear those words come out of your mouth, especially after you’ve been playing mind games with me!” Without a moment’s hesitation, my sweet little boy burst into tears, of course, and they rivuleted their way down his soft cheeks, and at first I was righteously indignant and enraged, and then I felt bad. And then, worse. He probably did have a stomachache. It probably did stop aching. Even if it didn’t, I shouldn’t have yelled at him like that. And mostly, I'm ashamed to say, I thought Oh CRAP, what are those teachers going to think when they see his little reddish wet eyes? I almost turned around and made him come home anyway, but the thought of him wailing about missing the party and me being sick and irritable and a wretch in general was too much to bear. We drove back to school, and I was calm by then: I gave him one last option out in case he was still feeling ill. But the poor kid was probably terrified at the thought of being home alone with me—he opted to go in. So I walked him in.
And I drove home, once again wondering what in the world God was thinking when he gave me this innocent little soul to ruin and rankle. Good grief, I’m not cut out for this.
There, I’ve confessed my ugly moment for today. If there are more to come, I’ll confess them in private and spare you the pain of bearing witness.
The worst part is that now, I feel too awful to nap.
Thursday, September 4, 2008
Unlearning
We’ve been going through a detoxification period here for the past few days. Marcus spent some time around other kids recently, and he’s paying the price of having learned a few of their tricks.
My sweet little boy, my boy who thought the old lady down the street who sold her house had “turned into” our new younger neighbor; my innocent little child who mistook the word barricade for bear cave, and was trying to stop traffic with bears… My little son told me the other day, when I offered to help with potty functions, that I was the one who needed help—and he told me this in a very rude tone.
My little boy. Where did that come from?
And there were more events, more rudenesses, a mention of killing, a couple of tantrums when we haven’t had those for quite some time. He even stomped his feet! Repeatedly! OBNOXIOUS! I couldn’t make heads or tails of it at first. And then we realized what had happened: Exposure to other children who don’t behave.
I am seriously rethinking the preschool that begins next week. Is this sort of detox what will result? Will I be unteaching my sweet child all of those horrible lessons gleaned from precocious brats? I know socialization is important, but by golly, he’ll see other kids at church a couple times a week. And yeah, I was looking forward to a little bit of “me” time—but not if it will cost me the efforts I’ve been making for over 3 years now! What is me time worth if the price is losing my child to the world?
I know every kid is bratty sometimes. And I know, truly, it’s often not the kid’s fault. I was a teacher long ago—I remember how many times the troublemaker made absolute sense to me after meeting his or her parents and/or talking about home life. I know that huge numbers of children in this country suffer from benign neglect and over-abundance; instilling courtesy and respect and healthy doses of fear is time- and labor-intensive. It really is easier to raise brats, to give them too much to compensate for time not invested, for attention not granted; it is honestly simpler in the short run to park the kids in front of the TV regardless of what’s on. But my husband and I have tried to go a different route, and now I fear we’ll be steered onto that wide, undisciplined road of “everybody’s doing it” because we won’t be able to escape it. It’s such a big road, with a strange magnetic force that pulls children onto its surface. I can see through most of the lies and filth that the road prominently markets, but my child can’t. He’ll just soak it all up, and bring it home, and spew it inside our walls.
It’s downright depressing. And it’s not going to get any better. If we’re successful in our house, then unlearning will become a constant and lifelong process, just as it is for us adults. And if we fail? That big, wide road gets a wee bit more crowded.
My sweet little boy, my boy who thought the old lady down the street who sold her house had “turned into” our new younger neighbor; my innocent little child who mistook the word barricade for bear cave, and was trying to stop traffic with bears… My little son told me the other day, when I offered to help with potty functions, that I was the one who needed help—and he told me this in a very rude tone.
My little boy. Where did that come from?
And there were more events, more rudenesses, a mention of killing, a couple of tantrums when we haven’t had those for quite some time. He even stomped his feet! Repeatedly! OBNOXIOUS! I couldn’t make heads or tails of it at first. And then we realized what had happened: Exposure to other children who don’t behave.
I am seriously rethinking the preschool that begins next week. Is this sort of detox what will result? Will I be unteaching my sweet child all of those horrible lessons gleaned from precocious brats? I know socialization is important, but by golly, he’ll see other kids at church a couple times a week. And yeah, I was looking forward to a little bit of “me” time—but not if it will cost me the efforts I’ve been making for over 3 years now! What is me time worth if the price is losing my child to the world?
I know every kid is bratty sometimes. And I know, truly, it’s often not the kid’s fault. I was a teacher long ago—I remember how many times the troublemaker made absolute sense to me after meeting his or her parents and/or talking about home life. I know that huge numbers of children in this country suffer from benign neglect and over-abundance; instilling courtesy and respect and healthy doses of fear is time- and labor-intensive. It really is easier to raise brats, to give them too much to compensate for time not invested, for attention not granted; it is honestly simpler in the short run to park the kids in front of the TV regardless of what’s on. But my husband and I have tried to go a different route, and now I fear we’ll be steered onto that wide, undisciplined road of “everybody’s doing it” because we won’t be able to escape it. It’s such a big road, with a strange magnetic force that pulls children onto its surface. I can see through most of the lies and filth that the road prominently markets, but my child can’t. He’ll just soak it all up, and bring it home, and spew it inside our walls.
It’s downright depressing. And it’s not going to get any better. If we’re successful in our house, then unlearning will become a constant and lifelong process, just as it is for us adults. And if we fail? That big, wide road gets a wee bit more crowded.
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