We went to Math Night at the school last night. It was the school's way of trying to teach the parent's the "Everyday Math" support curriculum through games. As a non-fan of the Everyday Math curriculum, my attendance was to support my daughter. At home we are (or will be) teaching standard math, that well-worn program we all grew up with: long division, addition and subtraction tables, etc. So I take all their "pitches" with an in-one-ear-and-out-the-other approach...
When my daughter's teacher said they were teaching Kindergarteners and elementary school kids to use calculators last Monday, I inquired more deeply. Why in the world would anyone teach a child to use a calculator to do the work of her brain? The answer I got assuaged my fears temporarily (I decided to take a "let me see exactly what you're doing" approach). The teacher told me that I could be present for the 2 calculator lessons and that I would be told when those lessons were. Pooh came home Monday and said they'd had a lesson in calculators that day... I had not been told that the lesson
would be on Monday, as I was told I would be. Note: I had also been told that the lesson would be nothing more than further work learning numbers; not really a matter of doing their math work on a calculator (e.g., adding on it). Again, my daughter told me that they spent the lesson doing all their addition and subtraction problems on a calculator. After going through the roof, I decided I'm going to have to approach the matter more directly. I had also been told the curriculum had been adopted district wide for "consistency", yet just found out a school at the north end of town uses a standard math curriculum (Saxon), and not surprisingly, very successfully. That school has seen a nice rise in test scores among its students over the scores of the previous modern math taught students. This, too, requires more investigation: why can this school do something outside the district's policy?
Alas, the best part of last night's math night was that Pooh was too sick with her cold to concentrate or finish the math games. We left after the first round. She didn't want to, but her little eyes were so droopy and her breathing so drippy and stuffy. We came home, did some math tables (ha!) and went to bed.
It continues to blow my mind that administrative educators can tell us that standard math left too many children behind so they have to use the new math curricula, when the proof of failing test scores shows the new curricula are leaving ALL children behind. And when they say that standard math didn't teach us mathematical thinking, I look in the mirror and ask, "well, you who took umpteen higher and advanced math, science, and logic classes and did well in them, how in the world did you do it with all that standard math not teaching you to think?" PLEASE! Didn't it every occur to these administrators that perhaps it wasn't the curriculum but the approach to teaching it that left some kids behind? Maybe there was prejudice, economic disparity, cultural differences, and other factors that led to the disparity? Are the children of those children who didn't understand standard math being helped any more by the new curricula? Are these issues too touchy, incomprehensible, difficult, or improbable to remedy? And will math reform or any true education reform every come about without these (and their partner issues) being dealt with?
And perhaps someone will tell me why it matters more that our districts curriculum supervisor be able to walk into any school in Seattle and see the same lesson being taught on the same day (her words) than that the teachers be able to teach the students in front of them the way she or he sees those children need to be taught so that they can learn?
Aaaaa. It makes me crazy.
Friday, January 25, 2008
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
Monday, January 21, 2008
The Reverend Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. Day
My daughter and I joined the throng of marchers at Franklin High School in Seattle today for the annual Martin Luther King Day march and rally. The temperature settled a little above freezing, so we bundled up and walked amid the sea of easy-going, happy spirits.
Picture a face representing nearly every national-origin, racial, gender, age, economic, and ethnic make-up in Seattle, and you would have our group. Some bore signs denouncing the war; others signs calling for Peace. We read signs for immigration reform, socialism, organized labor, women's rights, presidential candidates, civic and social groups, an end to racism/poverty/ injustice, for freeing prisoners and fewer prisons. We heard chants of "Si, se puede", "What do we want? Peace! When do we want it? Now!", and the singing of freedom march songs. We heard three men discuss being pass around the California penal system. We heard a young white man trying to get the interest of three young African-American women who were not interested. We saw all sorts of families. We were helped by the afore-mentioned group of three young African-American women when my daughter stumbled getting off my shoulders to walk a bit. We got to say "thanks" and joke around a little. We heard a middle-aged African American woman lecture several young African-American men to get involved, to continue the fight. We heard a man named Muhammed give the invocation at the start of the march.
As we walked and listened and talked with others, I had the chance to tell my daughter why we march. I got to tell her about the marches of my childhood. I got to tell her how far we've come and that we still have work to do to get farther along. She asked me why some white people a long time ago wouldn't let black people do some things. I answered. From time to time I noticed others listening to us as we listened to them. I heard her express exasperation at the ignorance and nonsense of anyone ever thinking they were better than another because of anything, especially something they couldn't control like skin color, something they were given as a gift of creation. I heard my own voice from when I was a child expressing that same exasperation to my mother when I realized that my black friend couldn't have certain things because some white people, the same color as I, had said "no."
Unlike myself as a child, though, I heard my daughter try to understand where she and her parents fit into the scheme of things: a white mother, a brown Hispanic father, and their child. What am I, Mama? What did she feel hearing that her mother was part of the race that had (and still does) hurt so many? What did she feel knowing she comes from this race, too, and from one of those that has been and still is hurt by the majority in this country? I have told her about what our family has done right and wrong, and I have told her that we all have a choice how we will act.
She asked when we will stop marching as a people, and I told her, "when we all treat each other truly as we want to be treated." She asked what we would do then, and I said, "we will live in peace, and everyone will share everything, and some of the things we think we cannot change or overcome now will be a distant memory of accomplishments." And then I told her, "on that day, sweetie, God will be all in all."
We held out for most of the march, but Little Bear got weary and hungry near the end, so we took a short cut to the rally point and then headed off for lunch.
Picture a face representing nearly every national-origin, racial, gender, age, economic, and ethnic make-up in Seattle, and you would have our group. Some bore signs denouncing the war; others signs calling for Peace. We read signs for immigration reform, socialism, organized labor, women's rights, presidential candidates, civic and social groups, an end to racism/poverty/ injustice, for freeing prisoners and fewer prisons. We heard chants of "Si, se puede", "What do we want? Peace! When do we want it? Now!", and the singing of freedom march songs. We heard three men discuss being pass around the California penal system. We heard a young white man trying to get the interest of three young African-American women who were not interested. We saw all sorts of families. We were helped by the afore-mentioned group of three young African-American women when my daughter stumbled getting off my shoulders to walk a bit. We got to say "thanks" and joke around a little. We heard a middle-aged African American woman lecture several young African-American men to get involved, to continue the fight. We heard a man named Muhammed give the invocation at the start of the march.
As we walked and listened and talked with others, I had the chance to tell my daughter why we march. I got to tell her about the marches of my childhood. I got to tell her how far we've come and that we still have work to do to get farther along. She asked me why some white people a long time ago wouldn't let black people do some things. I answered. From time to time I noticed others listening to us as we listened to them. I heard her express exasperation at the ignorance and nonsense of anyone ever thinking they were better than another because of anything, especially something they couldn't control like skin color, something they were given as a gift of creation. I heard my own voice from when I was a child expressing that same exasperation to my mother when I realized that my black friend couldn't have certain things because some white people, the same color as I, had said "no."
Unlike myself as a child, though, I heard my daughter try to understand where she and her parents fit into the scheme of things: a white mother, a brown Hispanic father, and their child. What am I, Mama? What did she feel hearing that her mother was part of the race that had (and still does) hurt so many? What did she feel knowing she comes from this race, too, and from one of those that has been and still is hurt by the majority in this country? I have told her about what our family has done right and wrong, and I have told her that we all have a choice how we will act.
She asked when we will stop marching as a people, and I told her, "when we all treat each other truly as we want to be treated." She asked what we would do then, and I said, "we will live in peace, and everyone will share everything, and some of the things we think we cannot change or overcome now will be a distant memory of accomplishments." And then I told her, "on that day, sweetie, God will be all in all."
We held out for most of the march, but Little Bear got weary and hungry near the end, so we took a short cut to the rally point and then headed off for lunch.
Friday, January 18, 2008
Resident Rabbit
People talk about the power of positive thinking. How about simply: the power of thinking. Wishing and hoping doesn't hurt, making a thorough case for your point or desire can be pretty effective. But my daughter takes the cake.
She has asked me every day for a week for a pet rabbit. When I've said "no," she's said she wants the Easter Bunny to leave one in her Easter Basket on Easter Morning, assuming this is an end-run around Mama.
We have an indoor cat. A House Rabbit sounds tenuous and possibly imprudent under the circumstances. It will take a bit of research and quizzing the experts before such a commitment. A fish with a covered tank or a caged hamster sound safer.
But back to the power of thinking.
When we came home this evening, we were greeted in the back yard by a very fat, brown, presumably wild rabbit. The three of us looked as fascinated and startled as s/he. She watched us for a few moments; then dashed under the low deck. We got some carrots and left them around the place where she disappeared and a couple of other places as well. She has since re-emerged and hopped around the yard nibbling grass and carrots.
How in the world my dear, dear child conjured a live rabbit in the back yard by wishing, I don't propose to know, but it has sprinkled our weekend with the fantastical fairy dust of possibility.
She has asked me every day for a week for a pet rabbit. When I've said "no," she's said she wants the Easter Bunny to leave one in her Easter Basket on Easter Morning, assuming this is an end-run around Mama.
We have an indoor cat. A House Rabbit sounds tenuous and possibly imprudent under the circumstances. It will take a bit of research and quizzing the experts before such a commitment. A fish with a covered tank or a caged hamster sound safer.
But back to the power of thinking.
When we came home this evening, we were greeted in the back yard by a very fat, brown, presumably wild rabbit. The three of us looked as fascinated and startled as s/he. She watched us for a few moments; then dashed under the low deck. We got some carrots and left them around the place where she disappeared and a couple of other places as well. She has since re-emerged and hopped around the yard nibbling grass and carrots.
How in the world my dear, dear child conjured a live rabbit in the back yard by wishing, I don't propose to know, but it has sprinkled our weekend with the fantastical fairy dust of possibility.
Thursday, January 17, 2008
Movie Vegetarian
A couple of friends and I got together for our "Women's Night Out" yesterday. We witnessed Sweeney Todd's musical mayhem and followed it with a marathon of catching up.
Movie Review: Sweeney Todd
The movie's production values were high, the singing surprisingly adaptable, the plot demented with a slathering of humor, the blood blessedly obviously fake, but the gore and viciousness too much for me. Nausea rose a bit high. If I hadn't eliminated meat from my diet last week, I would have after last night.
There was a time I watched slasher flicks and horror movies. That time passed about 15 years ago. The brutality of them became too real and too painful. People laughing and cheering as a villain massacred a victim made me ill. Sweeney stands on a higher step than those films, in that it's point isn't the demented violence, or even the desire to manipulate an audience with fear. Sweeney points to the unspoken, polite, socially-condoned and legally enforced violence which society's can inflict. The story paints violence from oppression as the equivalent of slitting the throats of and eating a society's people. In this way a society kills and eats itself. As in the movie, societies often consume the isolated and strangers among them, and likewise, most of us never notice they're missing. There are other themes that can be drawn, but this will do for now.
As for the cockroaches, well, I'll have nightmares for a while.
Evening Review: lovely. Being in the presence of two people I relate well to, whom I trust, admire, and adore, revitalized me, even as I flopped into bed for a few hours sleep before sunrise. The feeling is something akin to hope.
Movie Review: Sweeney Todd
The movie's production values were high, the singing surprisingly adaptable, the plot demented with a slathering of humor, the blood blessedly obviously fake, but the gore and viciousness too much for me. Nausea rose a bit high. If I hadn't eliminated meat from my diet last week, I would have after last night.
There was a time I watched slasher flicks and horror movies. That time passed about 15 years ago. The brutality of them became too real and too painful. People laughing and cheering as a villain massacred a victim made me ill. Sweeney stands on a higher step than those films, in that it's point isn't the demented violence, or even the desire to manipulate an audience with fear. Sweeney points to the unspoken, polite, socially-condoned and legally enforced violence which society's can inflict. The story paints violence from oppression as the equivalent of slitting the throats of and eating a society's people. In this way a society kills and eats itself. As in the movie, societies often consume the isolated and strangers among them, and likewise, most of us never notice they're missing. There are other themes that can be drawn, but this will do for now.
As for the cockroaches, well, I'll have nightmares for a while.
Evening Review: lovely. Being in the presence of two people I relate well to, whom I trust, admire, and adore, revitalized me, even as I flopped into bed for a few hours sleep before sunrise. The feeling is something akin to hope.
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
Wisdom of a Six Year Old
My daughter shared a gem of wisdom with me this morning. She said,
She spent her dressing time making up and singing a song about stopping the war. She turned six about a week ago. She goes to a school with a large immigrant population. Our priest is from Kenya and happens to be visiting in Kenya right now, helping those in need during the current turmoil. She hears and sees the results of displacement and hurt. And God has blessed her with a shrewd mind, caring heart, and gifts of music, words, and art.
How do I create a haven of peace and compassion in my heart, mind, and body, a disciplined tongue, so that the Spirit of love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control infect our immediate world and spread faster and more thoroughly than disease, poverty, dissension, confusion, chaos, lies, fear, hatred, ambivalence, isolation, and mistrust?
Today, I will ponder the wisdom of my child. I will curb my tongue, question thoughts that would rise as bile on my lips, try to see the other side of issues, to understand others, and keep my body at peace so that it does not become a weapon, nor wield one against others or myself.
One thought that flits through my head as I ponder the universal wisdom of my child is, "if life is a continual journey toward God, then why do children find it easier to see Truth and enter into God's presence than adults?" The child's simplicity and holiness awes me and leads me closer to God. It is why I still work as a catechist at our church. I sometimes think my role as catechist is as humble follower of the child. Other times I think it is to encourage them to know that they are in Truth. Perhaps it is as simple as custodian of a quiet, sacred space to nurture these beautiful beings communing with God. They don't need me to tell them they know God; they know that they know God.
And these thoughts confirm again for me that coming to God is more than magic words or moments. It is constantly reminding the self of the humbling power of Grace: we begin in God, from God, and for God.
"everything is good to use except weapons and hurtful words. A hurtful word is a weapon, and a weapon is a hurtful word."
She spent her dressing time making up and singing a song about stopping the war. She turned six about a week ago. She goes to a school with a large immigrant population. Our priest is from Kenya and happens to be visiting in Kenya right now, helping those in need during the current turmoil. She hears and sees the results of displacement and hurt. And God has blessed her with a shrewd mind, caring heart, and gifts of music, words, and art.
How do I create a haven of peace and compassion in my heart, mind, and body, a disciplined tongue, so that the Spirit of love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control infect our immediate world and spread faster and more thoroughly than disease, poverty, dissension, confusion, chaos, lies, fear, hatred, ambivalence, isolation, and mistrust?
Today, I will ponder the wisdom of my child. I will curb my tongue, question thoughts that would rise as bile on my lips, try to see the other side of issues, to understand others, and keep my body at peace so that it does not become a weapon, nor wield one against others or myself.
One thought that flits through my head as I ponder the universal wisdom of my child is, "if life is a continual journey toward God, then why do children find it easier to see Truth and enter into God's presence than adults?" The child's simplicity and holiness awes me and leads me closer to God. It is why I still work as a catechist at our church. I sometimes think my role as catechist is as humble follower of the child. Other times I think it is to encourage them to know that they are in Truth. Perhaps it is as simple as custodian of a quiet, sacred space to nurture these beautiful beings communing with God. They don't need me to tell them they know God; they know that they know God.
And these thoughts confirm again for me that coming to God is more than magic words or moments. It is constantly reminding the self of the humbling power of Grace: we begin in God, from God, and for God.
Monday, January 14, 2008
There Is Nothing Like a Date
Saturday night we celebrated a wedding. It was different from many, trading a sometimes somber seriousness for light and loving. What made it more celebratory was that is was a date, a real date, for us. We had a late lunch that day at a restaurant called "Purple". Frank's criterion: the restaurant must not have a children's menu. It didn't. The food was delicious. The wedding took place at a venue that did not allow minors.
We love our daughter, and we do so even more when we get some time away every once in a while. ;)
We love our daughter, and we do so even more when we get some time away every once in a while. ;)
Friday, January 11, 2008
Excuses
Why do we think up excuses? I'm not going to go too deep into this question. It comes to mind because I was sorting through Christmas cards and letters and re-read my parents' brief letter in which they told everyone that they'd been to Seattle this summer to see my niece graduate high school. This bit of text struck a sour note.
At first I thought it hit me wrong because they'd failed to mention my daughter's "big event" (preschool graduation) that had occurred the day before my niece's event (high school graduation). Most people might not consider "graduation" from preschool much of a deal, and my family did not, as no one gave it a thought or showed up for it except my husband and me. My daughter thought it was a very big deal. She felt she had learned a lot. She felt she had been through a lot. She felt great kinship with her much older cousin because they were both graduating on the same weekend. She felt confused when no one came to her ceremony and everyone went to the other. She took it personally, and yet with more grace than her father and I did.
Do I think people should travel thousands of miles to go to family members' preschool graduations? No. I don't think they have to travel anywhere for anyone's. Acknowledging the achievement is fine. Acknowledging the importance of the individual (and so the event to the individual) is crucial. (Note of confession: I vehemently struggled to avoid both my college and law school graduations, but it was extremely important to my parents, so I relented.)
I don't think my extended family understood the importance of this little preschool to my immediate family. The people who run this school are persons of color. The families attending are mostly of color or mixed race; they run the economic and educational gamut. And this school thrives with more love pumping through its veins than some families. The children succeed. They have strong self-esteem. They are motivated and a joy to be around. Many of them are ready for 1st Grade when they leave; not just Kindergarten... and they haven't been plugged into chairs with lectures all day. They've played and learned and their play is learning and their learning is play. It is a wonderful place. It is a healthy, vibrant community. It was the place to which my daughter transitioned from my 24-hour care when she was almost 4 years old. It was the place that helped us teach her that the world was safe and loving and exciting and that she was okay with or without Mama's constant physical presence.
Our only child, who had been afraid of rambunctious play at the parks around town and would stop playing if the other children got into that play mode, who sometimes had a hard time making friends at public events, learned how to navigate the world of social interaction. We go to a park now and she finds someone to play with. Rambunctious play goes on around her and she navigates that, too. The presence of boys does not send her to the sidelines of play. She is comfortable with persons of different races, genders, cultures, and languages. She is comfortable with her own mixed-race family. Sure, she picked up the subjects the school taught with the ease of a champion learner, but it was the social skills more than anything for which we are grateful. I had trouble with shyness growing up. There is a part of me that is exuberantly outgoing around those I know and feel comfortable with and a part that has no idea how to get to know other people and get to a point of comfort with them. Maybe my daughter will struggle, too, but at least she has some tools to work with that I didn't have to give her.
Preschool graduation is a momentous occasion to the children involved. Others recognize that the children have achieved and honor that achievement. We can't know what all those achievements are, but some, like those mentioned above, are obvious. And we can't know everything the child thinks s/he achieved. For a parent to recognize that a child has transitioned to a place of comfort on her own two feet, through a major transition, is to respect that child and reinforce that child's confidence that her judgment is correct: I have achieved and I can achieve. All achievement is not measured by how much of a product you've completed to code in an 8-hour day or on how many tests you've scored a passing grade. Why, after all, do we celebrate 50th wedding anniversaries? Not because the couple had X number of children or made X number of dollars together.
Sometimes don't we celebrate so we can celebrate each other with each other? Sometimes don't we celebrate that we are with each other?
Which brings me back to what I think bothered me about the Christmas letter. Everything isn't about achievement, practicality, frugality, or a valid purpose. We don't need excuses to take trips to see each other or to celebrate each other.
I can only guess what it was like growing up in the Great Depression. I listen to every story I can from those who did. I read. I imagine. But I did not do it. My husband comes closer to understanding than I, because he didn't grow up with as much as I. When he describes his upbringing, it sounds more like my mother's than mine.
My parents have been frugal people as long as I've known them. Every expense has been scrutinized and weighed. Sometimes potential expenditures were rolled around on a lightly floured surface and folded into themselves until the worry was kneaded through. My parents took good care of us and set themselves up for a decent retirement. They are generous, loving, and gracious people. They taught me much in this way. And there is this part of them, and therefore me, that is sooooo Scots-Irish, so prudently Protestant, so thrifty and sensible that it is as if their brains wore nurse's shoes.
What bothered me about the Christmas letter was that the words essentially said, "we owe you all a sensible explanation for this trip. We need an excuse for this frivolity. It can't be about us. It must be about someone else to be legitimate and not selfish." My parents don't need an excuse to visit, to travel, to love on us or themselves. They don't have to be practical in all things. They don't need anyone's approval or blessing.
It's the same reason my family didn't show for the preschool graduation. The event was not sensible because a child's seemingly small accomplishments don't register on the general, practical, work-ethic adult mind as meritorious. Maybe the children's accomplishments are greater than any of our adult accomplishments. And maybe it is time to set aside the accomplishment scale, the critical eye, and release each other from these bonds of expected scrutiny. Maybe we could not only stop fishing around for the plank in our neighbor's eye, but also stop digging about for the splinter in our own, realizing that maybe there is no splinter, that our eyes are bloodshot and hurt from the strain of scrutiny and simply need a rest.
At first I thought it hit me wrong because they'd failed to mention my daughter's "big event" (preschool graduation) that had occurred the day before my niece's event (high school graduation). Most people might not consider "graduation" from preschool much of a deal, and my family did not, as no one gave it a thought or showed up for it except my husband and me. My daughter thought it was a very big deal. She felt she had learned a lot. She felt she had been through a lot. She felt great kinship with her much older cousin because they were both graduating on the same weekend. She felt confused when no one came to her ceremony and everyone went to the other. She took it personally, and yet with more grace than her father and I did.
Do I think people should travel thousands of miles to go to family members' preschool graduations? No. I don't think they have to travel anywhere for anyone's. Acknowledging the achievement is fine. Acknowledging the importance of the individual (and so the event to the individual) is crucial. (Note of confession: I vehemently struggled to avoid both my college and law school graduations, but it was extremely important to my parents, so I relented.)
I don't think my extended family understood the importance of this little preschool to my immediate family. The people who run this school are persons of color. The families attending are mostly of color or mixed race; they run the economic and educational gamut. And this school thrives with more love pumping through its veins than some families. The children succeed. They have strong self-esteem. They are motivated and a joy to be around. Many of them are ready for 1st Grade when they leave; not just Kindergarten... and they haven't been plugged into chairs with lectures all day. They've played and learned and their play is learning and their learning is play. It is a wonderful place. It is a healthy, vibrant community. It was the place to which my daughter transitioned from my 24-hour care when she was almost 4 years old. It was the place that helped us teach her that the world was safe and loving and exciting and that she was okay with or without Mama's constant physical presence.
Our only child, who had been afraid of rambunctious play at the parks around town and would stop playing if the other children got into that play mode, who sometimes had a hard time making friends at public events, learned how to navigate the world of social interaction. We go to a park now and she finds someone to play with. Rambunctious play goes on around her and she navigates that, too. The presence of boys does not send her to the sidelines of play. She is comfortable with persons of different races, genders, cultures, and languages. She is comfortable with her own mixed-race family. Sure, she picked up the subjects the school taught with the ease of a champion learner, but it was the social skills more than anything for which we are grateful. I had trouble with shyness growing up. There is a part of me that is exuberantly outgoing around those I know and feel comfortable with and a part that has no idea how to get to know other people and get to a point of comfort with them. Maybe my daughter will struggle, too, but at least she has some tools to work with that I didn't have to give her.
Preschool graduation is a momentous occasion to the children involved. Others recognize that the children have achieved and honor that achievement. We can't know what all those achievements are, but some, like those mentioned above, are obvious. And we can't know everything the child thinks s/he achieved. For a parent to recognize that a child has transitioned to a place of comfort on her own two feet, through a major transition, is to respect that child and reinforce that child's confidence that her judgment is correct: I have achieved and I can achieve. All achievement is not measured by how much of a product you've completed to code in an 8-hour day or on how many tests you've scored a passing grade. Why, after all, do we celebrate 50th wedding anniversaries? Not because the couple had X number of children or made X number of dollars together.
Sometimes don't we celebrate so we can celebrate each other with each other? Sometimes don't we celebrate that we are with each other?
Which brings me back to what I think bothered me about the Christmas letter. Everything isn't about achievement, practicality, frugality, or a valid purpose. We don't need excuses to take trips to see each other or to celebrate each other.
I can only guess what it was like growing up in the Great Depression. I listen to every story I can from those who did. I read. I imagine. But I did not do it. My husband comes closer to understanding than I, because he didn't grow up with as much as I. When he describes his upbringing, it sounds more like my mother's than mine.
My parents have been frugal people as long as I've known them. Every expense has been scrutinized and weighed. Sometimes potential expenditures were rolled around on a lightly floured surface and folded into themselves until the worry was kneaded through. My parents took good care of us and set themselves up for a decent retirement. They are generous, loving, and gracious people. They taught me much in this way. And there is this part of them, and therefore me, that is sooooo Scots-Irish, so prudently Protestant, so thrifty and sensible that it is as if their brains wore nurse's shoes.
What bothered me about the Christmas letter was that the words essentially said, "we owe you all a sensible explanation for this trip. We need an excuse for this frivolity. It can't be about us. It must be about someone else to be legitimate and not selfish." My parents don't need an excuse to visit, to travel, to love on us or themselves. They don't have to be practical in all things. They don't need anyone's approval or blessing.
It's the same reason my family didn't show for the preschool graduation. The event was not sensible because a child's seemingly small accomplishments don't register on the general, practical, work-ethic adult mind as meritorious. Maybe the children's accomplishments are greater than any of our adult accomplishments. And maybe it is time to set aside the accomplishment scale, the critical eye, and release each other from these bonds of expected scrutiny. Maybe we could not only stop fishing around for the plank in our neighbor's eye, but also stop digging about for the splinter in our own, realizing that maybe there is no splinter, that our eyes are bloodshot and hurt from the strain of scrutiny and simply need a rest.
Thursday, January 10, 2008
Breasts
I have a pair of which I am fond. They go everywhere with me. When I am afraid, they proceed me into the scary place. They have been with me since before birth. When my daughter was born, they helped feed her, even when I was too tired to think. This fondness for these breasts is more a qualitative than a quantitative affection, but sincere.
Someone I know has breast cancer. She found out recently. Now I know. It's thrown me for a loop, so I can imagine what it's done to her.
Today has been a day of prayer.
Someone I know has breast cancer. She found out recently. Now I know. It's thrown me for a loop, so I can imagine what it's done to her.
Today has been a day of prayer.
Tuesday, January 8, 2008
Back To School
Little Bear started back to school yesterday post Christmas break. Her comment in the morning when she dressed and stood waiting at the back door with enormous enthusiasm about the return to school was, "I need a break from Break."
Upon returning from school she said, "I want to read." I thought she meant she wanted us to read books together. She meant, "I want to have the ability to read on my own." It held a ring of frustration, so we worked on reading. My frustration reared its head as I felt I was missing some tools to help her unlock the mystery of reading. So today, complete with a serious bout of vertigo, I sought resources. It looks like I need to learn how to read so that I can teach her. I am missing some tools. What I read made sense (perhaps because my head is still mysteriously spinning). The concepts of "sight words" and a language with more exceptions than rules has bothered me. It bothered me as a child. It makes language learning feel more difficult than it need be.
In High School, I was lucky enough to have an excellent Spanish teacher, Mrs. Zimbrick. One day, exasperated with the class' general ignorance of English Grammar and structure, she stopped teaching Spanish and taught us English from a structural standpoint. I'd always been good in English, but her lesson that day threw the switch on the ballpark floodlights in my head and led me to learn two new languages.
This sounds like a digression, but it isn't. In teaching Little Bear to read, I've felt that same frustration of not having the key to help her open the subject fully... Not grasping the underpinnings that (once understood) make the layers of details of your subject fall into place and the world sought open and accessible.
So we begin the process of teaching the mother to teach the child. To all you homeschoolers out there, I tip my hat.
Upon returning from school she said, "I want to read." I thought she meant she wanted us to read books together. She meant, "I want to have the ability to read on my own." It held a ring of frustration, so we worked on reading. My frustration reared its head as I felt I was missing some tools to help her unlock the mystery of reading. So today, complete with a serious bout of vertigo, I sought resources. It looks like I need to learn how to read so that I can teach her. I am missing some tools. What I read made sense (perhaps because my head is still mysteriously spinning). The concepts of "sight words" and a language with more exceptions than rules has bothered me. It bothered me as a child. It makes language learning feel more difficult than it need be.
In High School, I was lucky enough to have an excellent Spanish teacher, Mrs. Zimbrick. One day, exasperated with the class' general ignorance of English Grammar and structure, she stopped teaching Spanish and taught us English from a structural standpoint. I'd always been good in English, but her lesson that day threw the switch on the ballpark floodlights in my head and led me to learn two new languages.
This sounds like a digression, but it isn't. In teaching Little Bear to read, I've felt that same frustration of not having the key to help her open the subject fully... Not grasping the underpinnings that (once understood) make the layers of details of your subject fall into place and the world sought open and accessible.
So we begin the process of teaching the mother to teach the child. To all you homeschoolers out there, I tip my hat.
Monday, January 7, 2008
Plastic Sippy Cups and A Mother's Guilt
You probably all know about the plastic sippy cup broo-ha-ha going on in the plastic cup/utensil industry. I've had a late start looking into this, as it slipped my notice till recently.
My husband put me on to Google Reader and RSS feeds this weekend (yes, I'll soon plug an RSS feed into my blog and probably revamp the blog as well). So having noticed a blip of news about plastic baby bottles, I used my now set up Google Reader and Google itself to delve into the world of PLASTIC, specifically BPA's.
The good news is we have more space in the china cabinet (china being a flexible word, as in, there was some plastic in there.) The bad news is we have used the Avent Sippy Cups for our daughter since toddler-hood. Now that freaky part of my nature that gets all Medea-hysterical (but anti-Medea mothering) has sent up a wail of protest against all things that threaten my child, including my own ignorant actions. The Bapto-Catholic guilt rends the cloth of my soul and pulls the clouds down upon the sky.
Okay, the drama is over. I'm pissed. Enjoy the blip of language. Relish it. I'm enjoying the anger at whoever is in charge of consumer product review in this country. The agency upon agency upon agency that seems to have turned a blind eye to the dangers of Phthalates, Bisphenol A (BPA), and Polybrominated diphenol ethers (PBDEs).
Now the anger turns inward, as it must with "I'm Not A Perfect Mother Guilt" ("oh, you knew plastic was evil, you so-called Mother, you!" Guilt-me says. "But not THAT evil!" I answer. "Oh, yes you did, spawn of the oil industry," Guilt-me retorts. "Spawn of the what?" I ask.) Enough! Enough!
Flush with information on Good Plastic Bad Plastic, I sorted our flexible china. Then, I got out an equally (?) evil plastic grocery bag and tossed the Bad Plastic into it. Ding dong the plastic sippies are gone, the hiking water bottles are gone, certain bowls, cups, lids, and straws are gone.
I said to myself, "Kick the dust off your feet and go ON!"
For those of you who were more behind than I on this matter, check here for useful information on the BPA plastics issue, which manufacturers and products are safe and which are not. The site says that the recycle numbers 1, 2, 4, and "most" 5's are okay. (Unfortunately, they don't say which 5's are okay and which aren't, but do not recommend tossing them. Hmmm.) They say 3's and 6's are the DEVIL and 7 probably is.
If you want to terrify yourself, follow their link to del.icio.us. It's better than watching a horror movie, alone, on a stormy night when the phone lines are down.
For those of you who want to worry about more plastics than just the BPA's, try this lovely look at a toxics review from Alaska.
Bon appetite. But with a glass or a lead-free, china cup, please.
My husband put me on to Google Reader and RSS feeds this weekend (yes, I'll soon plug an RSS feed into my blog and probably revamp the blog as well). So having noticed a blip of news about plastic baby bottles, I used my now set up Google Reader and Google itself to delve into the world of PLASTIC, specifically BPA's.
The good news is we have more space in the china cabinet (china being a flexible word, as in, there was some plastic in there.) The bad news is we have used the Avent Sippy Cups for our daughter since toddler-hood. Now that freaky part of my nature that gets all Medea-hysterical (but anti-Medea mothering) has sent up a wail of protest against all things that threaten my child, including my own ignorant actions. The Bapto-Catholic guilt rends the cloth of my soul and pulls the clouds down upon the sky.
Okay, the drama is over. I'm pissed. Enjoy the blip of language. Relish it. I'm enjoying the anger at whoever is in charge of consumer product review in this country. The agency upon agency upon agency that seems to have turned a blind eye to the dangers of Phthalates, Bisphenol A (BPA), and Polybrominated diphenol ethers (PBDEs).
Now the anger turns inward, as it must with "I'm Not A Perfect Mother Guilt" ("oh, you knew plastic was evil, you so-called Mother, you!" Guilt-me says. "But not THAT evil!" I answer. "Oh, yes you did, spawn of the oil industry," Guilt-me retorts. "Spawn of the what?" I ask.) Enough! Enough!
Flush with information on Good Plastic Bad Plastic, I sorted our flexible china. Then, I got out an equally (?) evil plastic grocery bag and tossed the Bad Plastic into it. Ding dong the plastic sippies are gone, the hiking water bottles are gone, certain bowls, cups, lids, and straws are gone.
I said to myself, "Kick the dust off your feet and go ON!"
For those of you who were more behind than I on this matter, check here for useful information on the BPA plastics issue, which manufacturers and products are safe and which are not. The site says that the recycle numbers 1, 2, 4, and "most" 5's are okay. (Unfortunately, they don't say which 5's are okay and which aren't, but do not recommend tossing them. Hmmm.) They say 3's and 6's are the DEVIL and 7 probably is.
If you want to terrify yourself, follow their link to del.icio.us. It's better than watching a horror movie, alone, on a stormy night when the phone lines are down.
For those of you who want to worry about more plastics than just the BPA's, try this lovely look at a toxics review from Alaska.
Bon appetite. But with a glass or a lead-free, china cup, please.
Miracles
favorite crucifix in our home. This is a bit of stray tree root we
found on the beach in Mexico last year one morning right before we
needed a miracle and received one.
I've needed to reflect upon the fact of miracles.
Saturday, January 5, 2008
Turning Six
Our daughter turned 6 years old today. Officially, the celebration began yesterday (as the day labor began 6 years ago).
Yesterday, she and I girded ourselves against the mild cold and wet, walked to the bus stop and rode to Westlake Center for hot drinks, window shopping, and a Monorail Ride to the Seattle Center. We sat up front with the Conductor on the Monorail, which is always fun.
When her feet hit the ice and slipped, her excitement wavered, but her faith in me did not. She immediately turned trusting eyes to me, expecting me to hold her hand and lead her confidently around the ice. With such confidence firmly placed in my ability, I stepped onto the ice, slipped ungracefully, recalled that it had been... oh, at least a decade and probably longer... that I'd been on ice skates, and stepped back off to reassess how to teach her when I needed to reteach myself. That's when I saw the walkers for the children to use as they learned. What a brilliant idea!
We got a walker for her, and I skated behind her holding onto the arms of the walker, guiding her as she figured out the feel of one foot in front of the other on ice. I remembered how to do it as she learned how to do it for the first time. After a few runs like this, we set the walker against the wall and had her skate to me about 4 feet away against the wall and back to the walker. Then, she skated alone with the walker; then to me without the walker for up to 10 feet. And at last, we stacked the walker with all the others outside the rink and stepped onto the ice to skate together, hand in hand, for the rest of the evening. We skated for 2 1/2-3 hours. Mercifully, I had extra children's socks packed... not for her, but to tuck into my skates to protect my bony ankles. She said her feet felt fine. It extended our skate time by at least an hour.
So our great adventure began the birthday weekend.
Today, we've celebrated by being slugs, her choice. Art projects, stories, a movie, a fire in the fireplace, a football game. With a birthday so close after Christmas and New Year's, I guess she was "peopled" and "evented" out. Perhaps later this year she'll want an UnBirthday party with friends and relatives. This year on her birthday, though, she wanted her parents and some peace and quiet.
Yesterday, she and I girded ourselves against the mild cold and wet, walked to the bus stop and rode to Westlake Center for hot drinks, window shopping, and a Monorail Ride to the Seattle Center. We sat up front with the Conductor on the Monorail, which is always fun.
When her feet hit the ice and slipped, her excitement wavered, but her faith in me did not. She immediately turned trusting eyes to me, expecting me to hold her hand and lead her confidently around the ice. With such confidence firmly placed in my ability, I stepped onto the ice, slipped ungracefully, recalled that it had been... oh, at least a decade and probably longer... that I'd been on ice skates, and stepped back off to reassess how to teach her when I needed to reteach myself. That's when I saw the walkers for the children to use as they learned. What a brilliant idea!
We got a walker for her, and I skated behind her holding onto the arms of the walker, guiding her as she figured out the feel of one foot in front of the other on ice. I remembered how to do it as she learned how to do it for the first time. After a few runs like this, we set the walker against the wall and had her skate to me about 4 feet away against the wall and back to the walker. Then, she skated alone with the walker; then to me without the walker for up to 10 feet. And at last, we stacked the walker with all the others outside the rink and stepped onto the ice to skate together, hand in hand, for the rest of the evening. We skated for 2 1/2-3 hours. Mercifully, I had extra children's socks packed... not for her, but to tuck into my skates to protect my bony ankles. She said her feet felt fine. It extended our skate time by at least an hour.
So our great adventure began the birthday weekend.
Today, we've celebrated by being slugs, her choice. Art projects, stories, a movie, a fire in the fireplace, a football game. With a birthday so close after Christmas and New Year's, I guess she was "peopled" and "evented" out. Perhaps later this year she'll want an UnBirthday party with friends and relatives. This year on her birthday, though, she wanted her parents and some peace and quiet.
Friday, January 4, 2008
Fire
I'm tired of juggling egos
Little balls of fire that burn my hands
Sometimes I drop mine
but always keep the others' flying
I want to pick mine up and drop the others
Walk across them like a bed of coals and out the door.
If you want one,
they're in the room where I left them.
Little balls of fire that burn my hands
Sometimes I drop mine
but always keep the others' flying
I want to pick mine up and drop the others
Walk across them like a bed of coals and out the door.
If you want one,
they're in the room where I left them.
Wednesday, January 2, 2008
String Ends and New Socks in an Old House
New Year's Eve
2007 ended in an unconventional and portentous way. First thing Monday, the cat was nowhere to be found. After her pink-eye episode of Saturday, I was worried. What if it were more than pink-eye after all? I searched off and on for about 2 hours. No cat. As I stepped out of the shower, my daughter shouted, "Mama, mama, come quick! Shadow has a string stuck to her bottom!"
I hope you're not eating while reading this. If you are, come back later when you're finished.
After toweling off and dressing, I opened the bathroom door and saw the cat scamper first one way and then another, a glimpse of red trailing her. Oh, brother. She really did have yarn stuck to her bottom. I stopped her and reached down to pull off the yarn.
Here was the problem. I couldn't pull off the yarn. The foot long stretch of red yarn wasn't stuck to her. It was exiting her.
I called my daughter to get a tissue, which she did. She then wisely stood back a good 5 feet in a mixture of horror, curiosity, and humor. I held poor Shadow and assisted her with the emission of the remaining foot of red yarn. Neither of us ever planned such an intimately gross experience, and hopefully, Shadow, having ended the year with the kittenish foolishness of slurping yarn will lead us all into a far wiser and intelligent 2008.
So, how is this portentous? In our house, it seems the best day to do something incredibly un-smart is New Year's Eve Day. Go out with a bang. The idea is that anything that goes wrong on New Year's Eve Day accentuates the brilliance of going forward. "We got that out of our system. We got that behind us. Next year has to be better." (No, the puns weren't originally intended, but they work really well.)
New Year's Day 2008
Lying in bed early New Year's Day I realized that I have lived in our house longer than I have lived in any other living space in my entire life. I have now lived in Washington State longer than all the other 6 I've lived in, except Mississippi. This revelation has set off a domino chain of thoughts to be followed, prodded, and explored. It also seems portentous for the year.
One thread of thought reads: how is it the nomadic child grew up to stay in one place? How do I stay in one place longer? Can I stay in one place? Did this realization bring on the wanderlust or was it already there? Where do I want to go? Do I want to go? Can I go and stay at the same time?
I think I need to write more, to open up that treasure chest of stories lying in a drawer, in journals, in notebooks, and in the back of my mind. Perhaps that is travel of the going and staying kind. Perhaps it is the tip of an iceberg that floats me away physically and mentally and brings me home.
2007 ended in an unconventional and portentous way. First thing Monday, the cat was nowhere to be found. After her pink-eye episode of Saturday, I was worried. What if it were more than pink-eye after all? I searched off and on for about 2 hours. No cat. As I stepped out of the shower, my daughter shouted, "Mama, mama, come quick! Shadow has a string stuck to her bottom!"
I hope you're not eating while reading this. If you are, come back later when you're finished.
After toweling off and dressing, I opened the bathroom door and saw the cat scamper first one way and then another, a glimpse of red trailing her. Oh, brother. She really did have yarn stuck to her bottom. I stopped her and reached down to pull off the yarn.
Here was the problem. I couldn't pull off the yarn. The foot long stretch of red yarn wasn't stuck to her. It was exiting her.
I called my daughter to get a tissue, which she did. She then wisely stood back a good 5 feet in a mixture of horror, curiosity, and humor. I held poor Shadow and assisted her with the emission of the remaining foot of red yarn. Neither of us ever planned such an intimately gross experience, and hopefully, Shadow, having ended the year with the kittenish foolishness of slurping yarn will lead us all into a far wiser and intelligent 2008.
So, how is this portentous? In our house, it seems the best day to do something incredibly un-smart is New Year's Eve Day. Go out with a bang. The idea is that anything that goes wrong on New Year's Eve Day accentuates the brilliance of going forward. "We got that out of our system. We got that behind us. Next year has to be better." (No, the puns weren't originally intended, but they work really well.)
New Year's Day 2008
Lying in bed early New Year's Day I realized that I have lived in our house longer than I have lived in any other living space in my entire life. I have now lived in Washington State longer than all the other 6 I've lived in, except Mississippi. This revelation has set off a domino chain of thoughts to be followed, prodded, and explored. It also seems portentous for the year.
One thread of thought reads: how is it the nomadic child grew up to stay in one place? How do I stay in one place longer? Can I stay in one place? Did this realization bring on the wanderlust or was it already there? Where do I want to go? Do I want to go? Can I go and stay at the same time?
I think I need to write more, to open up that treasure chest of stories lying in a drawer, in journals, in notebooks, and in the back of my mind. Perhaps that is travel of the going and staying kind. Perhaps it is the tip of an iceberg that floats me away physically and mentally and brings me home.
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