…you see screened in yards. You read that right, and I’m not kidding. We drove into Orlando this evening, and for the first time in my life I saw screened-in yards. The houses were large and new, mostly two stories, and all sitting on postage-stamp sized parcels, so we’re not talking about an enormous space. But, I kid you not, just about the entire back yard was enclosed in this large black metal framed, black screened contraption, about 15 feet tall, at least as wide as the house, and as deep as the yard. Of course, at 8:00 pm it was warm and humid enough to be just a tad uncomfortable, even for us Georgia Transplants, so I’m thinkin’ “What’s the point?” I mean weather aside, can you toss around a football with the kids in there? Or hit a few pop flies? Or even kick a soccer ball? Unless that screen material was made of some sort of impenetrable steel mesh, my kids would find a way to bust through it within minutes without even trying. And, I think I’d let ‘em. Those things looked a lot like cages, leading me to ask the question, “Are they keeping the bugs out, or the children in?”
Also, the thermostat in our room was set at 62 degrees when we walked in. It took two hours for the temperature to rise to a comfortable (for us) level.
We also saw a dead armadillo on the side of the road, but we’ve got those in Georgia, too.
Can’t wait til tomorrow when we find out exactly how warm 90 degrees in Florida is.
Thursday, May 7, 2009
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
Angel Bear vs The Noodle Soup
Angel Bear burned himself. The day before we’re supposed to leave for vacation. We were cooking noodle soup in the microwave. I went upstairs to fetch something while it cooked, and Angel Bear took it upon himself to try to remove the hot soup from the microwave when it beeped. He did use hot pads, but spilled the soup out onto his right forearm. I heard his scream from upstairs. Not a long, drawn out scream, but almost a yelp, then silence. I went downstairs, and he met me in the dining room. “I spilled my noodle soup.” Not, “I burned myself”. He was worried about having spilled his soup. I put him on the stool in front of the kitchen sink and started running cold water over the burn, but it was clear this was more than just a minor burn from the way he was crying. Angel Bear is no wimp, and he doesn’t cry easily or for long when he is hurt. An hour later, after ice, a dose of Tylenol, and a failed attempt to divert him with one of his favorite movies, he agreed to let me take him to the clinic.
Just knowing that relief was soon to come, he stopped crying as we reached the clinic, and only whimpered a few times while we were waiting to be seen. It was clear the pain had diminished significantly because he actually dozed for a few minutes on the exam table, with his head resting on my lap, his arm resting on the ice pack. Bless the staff, when I asked if he could be seen immediately, they got us right in (despite the one hour wait), and had his arm dressed and us out of there within about half an hour. By then, he was no longer crying, and not in nearly as much pain. He didn’t even need the codeine the clinic prescribed. But, it was nice to have it available, just in case.
I’ve always believed that it was up to the adults to keep calm during any crisis involving a child or children. So often I see parents at the park panicking or over-reacting to a child’s minor bumps or scrapes, and wonder what would happen if the child were actually, seriously injured. Most kids, I think, take their cues from their parent’s reaction. Is this bad? How bad? Should I be crying? Screaming and writhing? Or, is this something that hurts now, but is going to be okay in a little while? I think Papa Bear and I have done a pretty good job of keeping calm in a variety of parental-angst-inducing situations, including Brother Bear climbing 15 ft up the magnolia tree in our front yard. And I think, overall, the kids have benefitted from our mild responses. Angel Bear could have very easily panicked and become hysterical when he burned himself, but he didn’t. He cried, but he stayed very calm. He’s going to always remember the day he was burned by the noodle soup, and he’ll probably always be more cautious in the kitchen (which is a good thing). But he’s not been traumatized by the event, and that’s the most important part for me, and I think for him.
Just knowing that relief was soon to come, he stopped crying as we reached the clinic, and only whimpered a few times while we were waiting to be seen. It was clear the pain had diminished significantly because he actually dozed for a few minutes on the exam table, with his head resting on my lap, his arm resting on the ice pack. Bless the staff, when I asked if he could be seen immediately, they got us right in (despite the one hour wait), and had his arm dressed and us out of there within about half an hour. By then, he was no longer crying, and not in nearly as much pain. He didn’t even need the codeine the clinic prescribed. But, it was nice to have it available, just in case.
I’ve always believed that it was up to the adults to keep calm during any crisis involving a child or children. So often I see parents at the park panicking or over-reacting to a child’s minor bumps or scrapes, and wonder what would happen if the child were actually, seriously injured. Most kids, I think, take their cues from their parent’s reaction. Is this bad? How bad? Should I be crying? Screaming and writhing? Or, is this something that hurts now, but is going to be okay in a little while? I think Papa Bear and I have done a pretty good job of keeping calm in a variety of parental-angst-inducing situations, including Brother Bear climbing 15 ft up the magnolia tree in our front yard. And I think, overall, the kids have benefitted from our mild responses. Angel Bear could have very easily panicked and become hysterical when he burned himself, but he didn’t. He cried, but he stayed very calm. He’s going to always remember the day he was burned by the noodle soup, and he’ll probably always be more cautious in the kitchen (which is a good thing). But he’s not been traumatized by the event, and that’s the most important part for me, and I think for him.
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
Panic In The Dressing Room
On Thursday of this week, we are driving to Florida, and we’ll be on vacation (a “real family vacation” as hubby says) for ten days, and this presented me with a bit of a dilemma. While the weather here in Georgia has remained incredibly mild and pleasant – cool, breezy, lovely showers – Florida is sunny and in the 90’s. Ain’t no way I’m going to be comfortable in jeans, especially jeans I can’t button. And I have, literally, NO shorts I can wear. So, off to do a little shopping. And, by shopping, I mean more than just grabbing something off the table at Costco and hoping it will fit. I actually went to The Avenue and entered an actual clothing shop. By myself. It’s been a while since I’ve done that.
The first shop I walked into, The Gap, two nice salespersons greeted me. I told them I was looking for some casual shorts with a natural waist. They had no idea what a “natural waist” was. Wrong shop; everything they had was pretty far below the belly button, just barely covering the Netherlands.
The second shop I walked into, Banana Republic, I was a little more hopeful because the sales lady seemed to be about my age, and she knew what a natural waist was. But the shorts she pointed me toward were just not going to do. She was kind enough to lie to me and say “they look cute”, but I know better.
Now I was desperate enough to walk into Ann Taylor Loft, telling myself that if I had to pay a little more for clothes that fit, I would just have to do that. I was greeted by a very nice sales lady, she understood what I was looking for, and had some appropriate shorts. But, even better, there were dresses and skirts and tops that a Real Woman could actually wear. I don’t think I’ve ever tried on more outfits in one shopping trip as I did yesterday. And, a lot of stuff actually FIT and looked pretty good, considering the shape it was covering. It was awesome.
So, here’s where the panic set in. One of the dresses I grabbed to try on, a little halter thing, was a little tight getting over my shoulders. There was no zipper up the back to undo, so I assumed that it would go on over the top (after all, it was a large, so it should fit), which I managed – just barely – to do. It was not quite what I had in mind, putting more emphasis on places I’d rather not emphasis just now (the term “tent” came to mind), so after a quick mental “nope”, I proceeded to pull it off the same way it came on. Except, it wouldn’t come off. I couldn’t get it up over my bosom, much less my shoulders (which are a bit broad for a lady). I had the skirt over my head, my arms criss-crossed in front of my face, tugging on the waistband to try to get it up, and it just was not coming up. And, it was a well-built garment, so it wasn’t giving any. I was stuck. Really.
At this point, I had a decision to make. 1) Rip the dress trying to get it off, sheepishly explain what happened to the nice sales lady (who had taken the trouble to actually introduce herself to me and ask my name), and pay for it. 2) Buy the dress and wear it out of the store, and bolt home where I could cut it off with scissors. 3) Ask the sales lady for help. While I was weighing my options, I caught sight of myself in the mirror and immediately rejected option #3. While I was struggling between option #1 and option #2, and still struggling with the dress, it suddenly occurred to me that there might be a zipper on the side. I managed to sneak a peek under my still upraised left arm and, sure enough, there was a zipper there, which I barely managed to reach and unzip. Whew. I’m not as oversized as I thought I was. And, the sales lady didn’t have to see me in my winter padding and old lady undies (and nothing else, since it was a halter dress).
As it turns out, everything worked out well in the end. I found some really nice skirts and tops and dresses that will get me through summer (and more importantly, vacation), and they were having a buy-one-get-one-free sale on the entire store, so everything was a relative bargain. And, I didn’t have to wear an unflattering dress out of the store. The Shopping Fairies were with me this day, bless ‘em.
The first shop I walked into, The Gap, two nice salespersons greeted me. I told them I was looking for some casual shorts with a natural waist. They had no idea what a “natural waist” was. Wrong shop; everything they had was pretty far below the belly button, just barely covering the Netherlands.
The second shop I walked into, Banana Republic, I was a little more hopeful because the sales lady seemed to be about my age, and she knew what a natural waist was. But the shorts she pointed me toward were just not going to do. She was kind enough to lie to me and say “they look cute”, but I know better.
Now I was desperate enough to walk into Ann Taylor Loft, telling myself that if I had to pay a little more for clothes that fit, I would just have to do that. I was greeted by a very nice sales lady, she understood what I was looking for, and had some appropriate shorts. But, even better, there were dresses and skirts and tops that a Real Woman could actually wear. I don’t think I’ve ever tried on more outfits in one shopping trip as I did yesterday. And, a lot of stuff actually FIT and looked pretty good, considering the shape it was covering. It was awesome.
So, here’s where the panic set in. One of the dresses I grabbed to try on, a little halter thing, was a little tight getting over my shoulders. There was no zipper up the back to undo, so I assumed that it would go on over the top (after all, it was a large, so it should fit), which I managed – just barely – to do. It was not quite what I had in mind, putting more emphasis on places I’d rather not emphasis just now (the term “tent” came to mind), so after a quick mental “nope”, I proceeded to pull it off the same way it came on. Except, it wouldn’t come off. I couldn’t get it up over my bosom, much less my shoulders (which are a bit broad for a lady). I had the skirt over my head, my arms criss-crossed in front of my face, tugging on the waistband to try to get it up, and it just was not coming up. And, it was a well-built garment, so it wasn’t giving any. I was stuck. Really.
At this point, I had a decision to make. 1) Rip the dress trying to get it off, sheepishly explain what happened to the nice sales lady (who had taken the trouble to actually introduce herself to me and ask my name), and pay for it. 2) Buy the dress and wear it out of the store, and bolt home where I could cut it off with scissors. 3) Ask the sales lady for help. While I was weighing my options, I caught sight of myself in the mirror and immediately rejected option #3. While I was struggling between option #1 and option #2, and still struggling with the dress, it suddenly occurred to me that there might be a zipper on the side. I managed to sneak a peek under my still upraised left arm and, sure enough, there was a zipper there, which I barely managed to reach and unzip. Whew. I’m not as oversized as I thought I was. And, the sales lady didn’t have to see me in my winter padding and old lady undies (and nothing else, since it was a halter dress).
As it turns out, everything worked out well in the end. I found some really nice skirts and tops and dresses that will get me through summer (and more importantly, vacation), and they were having a buy-one-get-one-free sale on the entire store, so everything was a relative bargain. And, I didn’t have to wear an unflattering dress out of the store. The Shopping Fairies were with me this day, bless ‘em.
Mama Bear Has Emerged
I’ve put on a few pounds over the winter. I’m at “that age” now when you realize that if you don’t start making a few changes here and there, you’re going to end up the size of a bear, and much less fit. Unlike the bear who emerges from her den in the spring emaciated, starved and very grumpy, I have been….um…very well fed all winter long. And, it shows. I can no longer button my jeans, the ones I’ve worn for the past five years or so. The last time this happened, I was pregnant. I have no excuse for using the rubber band trick now (for the first couple of months of pregnancy I often used a rubber band looped from the button to the button hole so I could continue wearing my jeans a bit longer).
So, yes, I embarked on a radical change in our eating, much to the chagrin of my husband (who is trying to be a good sport about it) and children (who are not). I recently finished listening to the audiobook of In Defense of Food by Michael Pollan, which I highly recommend. He talks about the development of the food industry and “nutritionism”, and why it’s been so unhealthy for all of us. He points out that being compulsive about reading labels and listening to the advice of diet experts has not made us healthier, but has made us sicker, and explains why. And, he strongly encourages returning to a “native” diet – ANY native diet – for the sake of our health, and explains pretty clearly why those diets seem to work best. That was enough of a nudge for me to run out and buy some herb, tomato and pepper plants, and make a small kitchen garden in the front of the house.
I also pulled out my copy of French Women Don’t Get Fat by Mireille Guiliano for some recipes and inspiration, hit the grocery store and loaded up my basket with fresh (okay, semi-fresh) foods, and started cooking. And, we’re moving back to having regular, sit-down meals. Between the real food that doesn’t look or smell or taste like the old food, and the quickly dwindling supply of manufactured snacks in the pantry, I’m pretty sure there’ll be a rebellion pretty soon (unless hubby sneaks out to the grocery store). Thankfully, we’ll have the buffer of our vacation coming up. If I plan things out right, we can have a blending of prepared meals and eating-out meals, and coming home we can hunker down into the “this is how we eat at home” mentality. Although, I’ve not ruled out the possibility of armed resistance.
So, yes, I embarked on a radical change in our eating, much to the chagrin of my husband (who is trying to be a good sport about it) and children (who are not). I recently finished listening to the audiobook of In Defense of Food by Michael Pollan, which I highly recommend. He talks about the development of the food industry and “nutritionism”, and why it’s been so unhealthy for all of us. He points out that being compulsive about reading labels and listening to the advice of diet experts has not made us healthier, but has made us sicker, and explains why. And, he strongly encourages returning to a “native” diet – ANY native diet – for the sake of our health, and explains pretty clearly why those diets seem to work best. That was enough of a nudge for me to run out and buy some herb, tomato and pepper plants, and make a small kitchen garden in the front of the house.
I also pulled out my copy of French Women Don’t Get Fat by Mireille Guiliano for some recipes and inspiration, hit the grocery store and loaded up my basket with fresh (okay, semi-fresh) foods, and started cooking. And, we’re moving back to having regular, sit-down meals. Between the real food that doesn’t look or smell or taste like the old food, and the quickly dwindling supply of manufactured snacks in the pantry, I’m pretty sure there’ll be a rebellion pretty soon (unless hubby sneaks out to the grocery store). Thankfully, we’ll have the buffer of our vacation coming up. If I plan things out right, we can have a blending of prepared meals and eating-out meals, and coming home we can hunker down into the “this is how we eat at home” mentality. Although, I’ve not ruled out the possibility of armed resistance.
Saturday, April 4, 2009
A Mom's "Must-Be-Seen-As" Box (TJEd)
I just read The Anatomy of Peace by The Arbinger Institute. It’s a great book, which focuses on nurturing a Heart of Peace in ourselves and others. It talks about various “boxes” we may get emotionally stuck in during the course of our interactions with others, and how those boxes effect how we see ourselves, the world, and others, and thus affect our attitudes and behavior. Stephen Covey talks about hitting the “pause” button in our interactions, enlarging the space between stimulus and response, so that we are making conscious choices in our responses, rather than reacting to circumstances. Wayne Dyer points out that our thoughts and feelings are entirely of our own making, and thus we have the power to choose them. The Anatomy of Peace takes it one step further, giving us a clear model of the “boxes” which lead to certain thoughts and behaviors, and explaining the processes behind getting into the boxes, as well as getting out of the boxes.
So, I’ve been working on my boxes. Or, rather, identifying which box or boxes I am operating from at any given moment. Just the fact of being aware has made a difference in how I see myself, my family and our various interactions. Simply asking myself “which box am I in” each time I am feeling frustration or resistance or irritation, lightens my heart, changes my stance, and soothes the interaction. As Dyer says, “When you change the way you look at things, the things you look at change.”
My most obvious challenge today is my “Must-Be-Seen-As’ box. Like most women, I often equate the relative condition of my home with my relative worthiness as a homemaker, and by extension, my worthiness as a person. We have guests coming this afternoon for a little BBQ. Some homeschooling friends, a family we’ve known and spent time with pretty regularly for over a year. We’ve been to their home several times, and Amy always keeps her home very tidy and comfortable. And this is the part where my box kicks into high gear. My “Must-Be-Seen-As-A-Good-Homemaker” box. This is the part where I start getting tense and anxious, and start pressuring the kids to help me clean up the house, and start getting grumpy and grouchy and snappy because everyone else is not as obsessed with this as I am. This is the part where I start picking away at my relationships with my family, and we start having a less than pleasant day.
So, my challenge today is to stay out of this one particular box. Or, to move out of it as soon as I have realized I’ve moved into it. To enjoy the day and my family and our friends. Here I go.
So, I’ve been working on my boxes. Or, rather, identifying which box or boxes I am operating from at any given moment. Just the fact of being aware has made a difference in how I see myself, my family and our various interactions. Simply asking myself “which box am I in” each time I am feeling frustration or resistance or irritation, lightens my heart, changes my stance, and soothes the interaction. As Dyer says, “When you change the way you look at things, the things you look at change.”
My most obvious challenge today is my “Must-Be-Seen-As’ box. Like most women, I often equate the relative condition of my home with my relative worthiness as a homemaker, and by extension, my worthiness as a person. We have guests coming this afternoon for a little BBQ. Some homeschooling friends, a family we’ve known and spent time with pretty regularly for over a year. We’ve been to their home several times, and Amy always keeps her home very tidy and comfortable. And this is the part where my box kicks into high gear. My “Must-Be-Seen-As-A-Good-Homemaker” box. This is the part where I start getting tense and anxious, and start pressuring the kids to help me clean up the house, and start getting grumpy and grouchy and snappy because everyone else is not as obsessed with this as I am. This is the part where I start picking away at my relationships with my family, and we start having a less than pleasant day.
So, my challenge today is to stay out of this one particular box. Or, to move out of it as soon as I have realized I’ve moved into it. To enjoy the day and my family and our friends. Here I go.
Friday, March 20, 2009
I Love You, and I Disagree (TJEd)
My husband’s cousin taught me this. Thank you, Big D.
It was after 9/11, we had already invaded Afghanistan, and we were preparing to invade Iraq. Darren had sent me an article challenging the planned invasion. I responded by voicing my support for our government’s decision. Darren responded, and was strenuous in his arguments against invasion; I responded and was strenuous in my arguments supporting the invasion. We debated back and forth by email for a while, and it was clear we simply were not going to come to an agreement. In the end, Darren told me he was glad we had the discussion, glad I was willing to take a stand and argue for it, and glad that disagreeing on politics did not have a negative effect on our relationship. In fact, it strengthened it, and that was kind of a shocker for me, since I’d never experienced “relationship building through debate” before. We disagreed with one another, and still loved and respected one another. Long before I heard someone say it was possible to “disagree without being disagreeable”, Darren showed me how to do it. Because, you see, we weren’t trying to change one another, we were just having a discussion. A lively, passionate, heart-felt and very important discussion, but still just a discussion in which each tried to understand and be understood by the other. That is why we remain good friends, and why we will always be there for one another.
I do my best to practice this every day, because for me this is at the very heart of diplomacy, and Leadership and Statesmanship very often require a hefty dose of diplomacy. Sitting across the room (or the world wide web) from a friend or community member, and disagreeing on something that each of us is determined we are right about. Passionately discussing the “issue”, but never failing to see the person before me, continuing to respect them despite the words they are speaking which I simply cannot accept as “right”. Honestly and deeply looking for the rightness in their words, not finding it, and respecting them anyway.
So, what if we didn’t just practice this with our friends and family and members of our community? What if every American citizen who engaged in debate honored and respected every other American citizen enough to spar on the important issues, without ever losing sight of the American they are sparring with. Continuing to honor and respect that person as a fellow American, even when the debate ends in continued disagreement. What if all of us being Americans, all joined in our common love of our country and one another, was always, always, more important than who is right? Wouldn’t you like to live in that America? Wouldn’t you like your children and grandchildren to live in that America? I would. It’s going to take Leaders and Statesman to create that America, and I have absolutely no doubt that we can do it.
It was after 9/11, we had already invaded Afghanistan, and we were preparing to invade Iraq. Darren had sent me an article challenging the planned invasion. I responded by voicing my support for our government’s decision. Darren responded, and was strenuous in his arguments against invasion; I responded and was strenuous in my arguments supporting the invasion. We debated back and forth by email for a while, and it was clear we simply were not going to come to an agreement. In the end, Darren told me he was glad we had the discussion, glad I was willing to take a stand and argue for it, and glad that disagreeing on politics did not have a negative effect on our relationship. In fact, it strengthened it, and that was kind of a shocker for me, since I’d never experienced “relationship building through debate” before. We disagreed with one another, and still loved and respected one another. Long before I heard someone say it was possible to “disagree without being disagreeable”, Darren showed me how to do it. Because, you see, we weren’t trying to change one another, we were just having a discussion. A lively, passionate, heart-felt and very important discussion, but still just a discussion in which each tried to understand and be understood by the other. That is why we remain good friends, and why we will always be there for one another.
I do my best to practice this every day, because for me this is at the very heart of diplomacy, and Leadership and Statesmanship very often require a hefty dose of diplomacy. Sitting across the room (or the world wide web) from a friend or community member, and disagreeing on something that each of us is determined we are right about. Passionately discussing the “issue”, but never failing to see the person before me, continuing to respect them despite the words they are speaking which I simply cannot accept as “right”. Honestly and deeply looking for the rightness in their words, not finding it, and respecting them anyway.
So, what if we didn’t just practice this with our friends and family and members of our community? What if every American citizen who engaged in debate honored and respected every other American citizen enough to spar on the important issues, without ever losing sight of the American they are sparring with. Continuing to honor and respect that person as a fellow American, even when the debate ends in continued disagreement. What if all of us being Americans, all joined in our common love of our country and one another, was always, always, more important than who is right? Wouldn’t you like to live in that America? Wouldn’t you like your children and grandchildren to live in that America? I would. It’s going to take Leaders and Statesman to create that America, and I have absolutely no doubt that we can do it.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
The Knock at the Door (TJEd)
Okay, this has absolutely nothing to do with anything, but I thought it was funny, and maybe you will, too, so I’m just posting it for my friends. Hi, friends :)
One of the particular delights of homeschooling and being at home all day is you get to chat with those nice people who come to your door with Good Book in hand spreading The Word. With the truck almost perpetually parked in the driveway, and frequent screams and crashes audible from the front walk, it’s kind of hard to pretend we’re not home. And I’ve almost always got three kids madly dashing through the house in a winner-takes-all race to see who gets to open the door the moment the bell rings. I’ve kind of given up on the whole “don’t open the door if you don’t know who it is” thing, and just try to be within earshot whenever a caller is being greeted.
So, one morning last week, the kids and I were in the family room doing our reading together, and the doorbell rang. I think it was Thomas who made it to the door first, and I could hear bits of the conversation from where I was sitting on the couch, rolling my eyes at the umpteenth interruption I’d borne so far that morning. Thomas came back and informed me that “two men with a Bible want to talk to you.” Now, I’m just not a confrontational kind of person, so usually when these nice folks come to call, I listen attentively, remembering to smile and nod, and when they’ve finished (or, if it’s been 10 minutes already and I feel I can politely interrupt), I usually end up saying something to the effect “this isn’t a good time for us”, and wish them a good day. I usually have a small pang of guilt about not having invited them into my living room for tea, but, goodness, they are strangers after all. And, part of me kind of feels bad for them, going door to door doing what they genuinely feel is a service to the community, and probably not getting a lot of positive responses. That’s a tough job, and they’re not even getting paid for it (are they?).
So, I go to the door. And, this time, I was actually thinking ahead and brought with me the book I had been reading aloud from. As I greeted our visitors, I had a respectably sized hardcover book in my left hand, discretely tucked up against my torso. The two gentlemen were nicely dressed and groomed (I think they even had name badges), and respectfully standing off the front porch on the front walk. The elder gentlemen was in the forefront, introduced himself and his companion, and said something about wanting to visit and share a scripture with us. He was actually holding the Bible in front of him, and pointed to it as a way of illustrating his intent. At that point, I parried with The Lord of The Rings, smiled, and said “I’m sorry, we’re in the middle of studies right now, and we’re really not interested.” The nice man kind of started for a moment, and I realized I had said the words “not interested”. Like he was the Fuller Brush Man or the Avon Lady or something. Did I actually say that?
He politely gave me a “have a good day” and turned to go. It was only after I had closed the door that it occurred to me what kind of impression I must have made. I was wearing a black form-fitting knit tank with the words “I Feel A Sin Comin’ On” emblazoned across my chest in bold-and-flirty white letters, no mammary support, no shoes, a tattoo clearly visible on the top of one foot, no makeup, and I don’t think I had even showered yet. And, I actually said the words “not interested.” Somehow, I don’t think I’ll be invited to join their church.
One of the particular delights of homeschooling and being at home all day is you get to chat with those nice people who come to your door with Good Book in hand spreading The Word. With the truck almost perpetually parked in the driveway, and frequent screams and crashes audible from the front walk, it’s kind of hard to pretend we’re not home. And I’ve almost always got three kids madly dashing through the house in a winner-takes-all race to see who gets to open the door the moment the bell rings. I’ve kind of given up on the whole “don’t open the door if you don’t know who it is” thing, and just try to be within earshot whenever a caller is being greeted.
So, one morning last week, the kids and I were in the family room doing our reading together, and the doorbell rang. I think it was Thomas who made it to the door first, and I could hear bits of the conversation from where I was sitting on the couch, rolling my eyes at the umpteenth interruption I’d borne so far that morning. Thomas came back and informed me that “two men with a Bible want to talk to you.” Now, I’m just not a confrontational kind of person, so usually when these nice folks come to call, I listen attentively, remembering to smile and nod, and when they’ve finished (or, if it’s been 10 minutes already and I feel I can politely interrupt), I usually end up saying something to the effect “this isn’t a good time for us”, and wish them a good day. I usually have a small pang of guilt about not having invited them into my living room for tea, but, goodness, they are strangers after all. And, part of me kind of feels bad for them, going door to door doing what they genuinely feel is a service to the community, and probably not getting a lot of positive responses. That’s a tough job, and they’re not even getting paid for it (are they?).
So, I go to the door. And, this time, I was actually thinking ahead and brought with me the book I had been reading aloud from. As I greeted our visitors, I had a respectably sized hardcover book in my left hand, discretely tucked up against my torso. The two gentlemen were nicely dressed and groomed (I think they even had name badges), and respectfully standing off the front porch on the front walk. The elder gentlemen was in the forefront, introduced himself and his companion, and said something about wanting to visit and share a scripture with us. He was actually holding the Bible in front of him, and pointed to it as a way of illustrating his intent. At that point, I parried with The Lord of The Rings, smiled, and said “I’m sorry, we’re in the middle of studies right now, and we’re really not interested.” The nice man kind of started for a moment, and I realized I had said the words “not interested”. Like he was the Fuller Brush Man or the Avon Lady or something. Did I actually say that?
He politely gave me a “have a good day” and turned to go. It was only after I had closed the door that it occurred to me what kind of impression I must have made. I was wearing a black form-fitting knit tank with the words “I Feel A Sin Comin’ On” emblazoned across my chest in bold-and-flirty white letters, no mammary support, no shoes, a tattoo clearly visible on the top of one foot, no makeup, and I don’t think I had even showered yet. And, I actually said the words “not interested.” Somehow, I don’t think I’ll be invited to join their church.
Monday, March 16, 2009
Autumn Leaves and a Mild Sense of Panic (TJEd)
When you move from one house to another, there are always adjustments to be made. Where to put the silverware, where to pick up quick carton of milk, remembering the names of new neighbors. All of the moves I undertook during my adult life were pretty much within the same region (Southern California), except the last. In October 2007, my family and I moved from Corona, California to Lawrenceville, Georgia. Now, I was expecting to have to make some more significant adjustments than where to put the silverware, mostly on a social level. After all, we were moving from what many consider the most liberal State in our Union, to the heart of Redneck Country in the middle of the Deep South. And, there were some small adjustments to be made, like overcoming the shock of having neighbors actually visit us and introduce themselves the day after we moved in (one of them actually brought home-baked cookies and later hosted a “welcome to the neighborhood” shindig for us). But not nearly so extensive nor difficult as I had envisioned. The most surprising adjustment I had to make was primitively sensory.
We moved into our new home the first week of November. I was in awe of the turning of the leaves, something I had never really experienced before living most of my life in a two-season region (rainy and green for about a month, dry and brown the rest of the year). Thomas’s second floor bedroom window is very friendly with a respectably sized oak tree in our back yard. The week of our moving in, I would pass by his open bedroom door and notice the tree had changed its hue. By the end of our first week, the color had changed to such a brilliant, vibrant yellow, it seemed as though Thomas’ bedroom has been painted a new color. Then, suddenly, all of the leaves were gone, abandoning their trees to lay down a golden brown carpet on the earth. That is when the mild panic began visiting me.
In Georgia, Autumn means burning leaves. In open fires. In your back yard. In Southern California, an open fire demands nothing less than calling 9-11 immediately and letting the fire department know where they need to rush to prevent a blaze that could destroy hundreds, or even thousands, of homes. In our seven years living in Corona, we had no less than three major brush fires close enough to our home to 1) see from the front yard, and 2) warrant serious preparations to evacuate. The first was just weeks after we had moved into our first “ours” house (one we had bought instead of renting), and I was home alone with our brand new first child, still recovering from a difficult delivery. I stood in front of our house, swaddled infant in my arms, watching the gray plume of smoke in the not-too-distant distance, the unmistakable smell of smoke in the air, warily eyeing our 25+ year old shake-shingle roof made of actual wood, which was now old enough and dried out enough to catch fire rather easily. The second time, the plume of smoke rose straight overhead into the sky, ash was falling on the house, and the fire department had set up one of its operational bases in the park across the street. This time I had two small children, whom I packed up and took to a friend’s house across town, along with the family dog and the two cats I could catch on short notice (they were not happy). The third time was at night, there was a distinct red glow just over the nearest ridge, and we were watching the national news as thousands of homes all across California were being devoured by a dozen different raging-out-of-control fires, some of which took weeks to contain. Several of our own family members and friends were in the line of fire, literally, and were compelled to evacuate their homes by authorities, but all were, thankfully, unharmed.
So, the first time I stepped outside the back door of our new home in Georgia and smelled smoke, I was hit with a gut-wrenching anxiety-bordering-on-panic bred from years living in a fire zone. The only thing that prevented me from immediately calling 9-11 (and thus proving myself an incompetent foreigner to those parts) was the fact that our house came with its own fire pit in the back yard, and the sellers had kindly explained the best way to burn the autumn leaves without setting fire to the surrounding trees and houses. Breathing deeply, I called David. “Honey, there’s a fire somewhere.” He came out onto the back deck with me. “Yeah, someone’s burning leaves.” “Yeah?”. “Yeah, it’s fine honey.” It took me a month to get used to the smell of smoke so near my home. But, I did get used to it. Funny, but now the distinct smell of burning leaves is almost has homey to me as the smell of a mid-winter blaze in our own family room fireplace.
The second sensory adjustment was almost more primal than adjusting to the smell of fire, if you can believe it. It was the critter-induced rustling of the fallen Autumn leaves. We have squirrels everywhere in our neighborhood. And, I mean everywhere. And chipmunks, too, although they’re not nearly so bold as those darned squirrels. You can’t step outside the house without spying at least three or four squirrels bounding across the yard (they kind of run-hop, like drunken rabbits), scrambling up a tree, or dashing across a power line. When the ground is covered with freshly fallen dried leaves, there is an almost perpetual rustling sound, distinctly punctuated by scurrying, each time a human enters the zone. Now, in Southern California, a rustling sound usually means only one thing: a snake. And, it’s a fair bet it’s a rattlesnake, a critter you certainly do not want anything to do with, and certainly one you don’t want anywhere near your kids. So, again, stepping outside the door of our new home and hearing a rustling sound every time…well, it took a few weeks for the pounding of my heart to subside, and a few months before my heart quit its acrobatics every time I went outside.
The third sensory adjustment was more subtle, but has lingered longer. The rising sun is different here than what I was used to. In Corona, I had only a lace curtain across our bedroom window, because it looked out over our patio and secluded back yard. As the sun rose, bright light filled the bedroom, almost suddenly, making for a very pleasant, yet insistent, natural alarm clock. I loved waking to the rising sun, and pacing my day accordingly, shifting with the seasons. Here in Georgia, the sunrise is different. Not so bright, not so insistent. It sort of sneaks up on you, and even with the curtains drawn aside, it is so drawn-out and so subtle, the sunrise is not quite enough to waken you with a “time to get up!” I still have not adjusted, I still have difficulty obeying the sun, or even figuring out when it has actually risen, and rising accordingly. I hope this will change with a few more seasons. I hate relying on alarm clocks.
I’ve read a few authors who talk about “knowing a place”. Dr. DeMille talks about patriotism being linked to “knowing a place”. John Gatto writes about a similar sense of “place” as related to belonging and patriotism. After 2+ years of living here, I’ve come to know this place, even if I’m not yet entirely acclimatized yet. I’ve settled in a very primitive and instinctual way, as well as adjusting to the visual display that I love so much. There are times when I miss the new-found awe and wonder I felt our first fall and winter here; it has been replaced by a familiarity that almost borders on dismissive. But, I still find myself grabbing my camera and capturing images that make me smile and warm each time I look over them. I still love sitting on the back deck in the swing reading to the kids, even when we have to wrap up in blankets. I love the trees, and the fallen leaves, and the squirrels, and the slightly different tone of the morning sun. I love the bulbs pushing up in February, bravely risking being doused with snow or frost after their bloom, which seems to happen every year. I love the explosion of white blossoms on the dogwoods, so profuse in our little town, and madly clustered at the onramp onto the Parkway. I’m not quite far enough along to call myself a “Georgian”; I am still a “Californian transplanted”. But, I love my home, my “place”, as much as I love my country. And, I would do much to protect it.
We moved into our new home the first week of November. I was in awe of the turning of the leaves, something I had never really experienced before living most of my life in a two-season region (rainy and green for about a month, dry and brown the rest of the year). Thomas’s second floor bedroom window is very friendly with a respectably sized oak tree in our back yard. The week of our moving in, I would pass by his open bedroom door and notice the tree had changed its hue. By the end of our first week, the color had changed to such a brilliant, vibrant yellow, it seemed as though Thomas’ bedroom has been painted a new color. Then, suddenly, all of the leaves were gone, abandoning their trees to lay down a golden brown carpet on the earth. That is when the mild panic began visiting me.
In Georgia, Autumn means burning leaves. In open fires. In your back yard. In Southern California, an open fire demands nothing less than calling 9-11 immediately and letting the fire department know where they need to rush to prevent a blaze that could destroy hundreds, or even thousands, of homes. In our seven years living in Corona, we had no less than three major brush fires close enough to our home to 1) see from the front yard, and 2) warrant serious preparations to evacuate. The first was just weeks after we had moved into our first “ours” house (one we had bought instead of renting), and I was home alone with our brand new first child, still recovering from a difficult delivery. I stood in front of our house, swaddled infant in my arms, watching the gray plume of smoke in the not-too-distant distance, the unmistakable smell of smoke in the air, warily eyeing our 25+ year old shake-shingle roof made of actual wood, which was now old enough and dried out enough to catch fire rather easily. The second time, the plume of smoke rose straight overhead into the sky, ash was falling on the house, and the fire department had set up one of its operational bases in the park across the street. This time I had two small children, whom I packed up and took to a friend’s house across town, along with the family dog and the two cats I could catch on short notice (they were not happy). The third time was at night, there was a distinct red glow just over the nearest ridge, and we were watching the national news as thousands of homes all across California were being devoured by a dozen different raging-out-of-control fires, some of which took weeks to contain. Several of our own family members and friends were in the line of fire, literally, and were compelled to evacuate their homes by authorities, but all were, thankfully, unharmed.
So, the first time I stepped outside the back door of our new home in Georgia and smelled smoke, I was hit with a gut-wrenching anxiety-bordering-on-panic bred from years living in a fire zone. The only thing that prevented me from immediately calling 9-11 (and thus proving myself an incompetent foreigner to those parts) was the fact that our house came with its own fire pit in the back yard, and the sellers had kindly explained the best way to burn the autumn leaves without setting fire to the surrounding trees and houses. Breathing deeply, I called David. “Honey, there’s a fire somewhere.” He came out onto the back deck with me. “Yeah, someone’s burning leaves.” “Yeah?”. “Yeah, it’s fine honey.” It took me a month to get used to the smell of smoke so near my home. But, I did get used to it. Funny, but now the distinct smell of burning leaves is almost has homey to me as the smell of a mid-winter blaze in our own family room fireplace.
The second sensory adjustment was almost more primal than adjusting to the smell of fire, if you can believe it. It was the critter-induced rustling of the fallen Autumn leaves. We have squirrels everywhere in our neighborhood. And, I mean everywhere. And chipmunks, too, although they’re not nearly so bold as those darned squirrels. You can’t step outside the house without spying at least three or four squirrels bounding across the yard (they kind of run-hop, like drunken rabbits), scrambling up a tree, or dashing across a power line. When the ground is covered with freshly fallen dried leaves, there is an almost perpetual rustling sound, distinctly punctuated by scurrying, each time a human enters the zone. Now, in Southern California, a rustling sound usually means only one thing: a snake. And, it’s a fair bet it’s a rattlesnake, a critter you certainly do not want anything to do with, and certainly one you don’t want anywhere near your kids. So, again, stepping outside the door of our new home and hearing a rustling sound every time…well, it took a few weeks for the pounding of my heart to subside, and a few months before my heart quit its acrobatics every time I went outside.
The third sensory adjustment was more subtle, but has lingered longer. The rising sun is different here than what I was used to. In Corona, I had only a lace curtain across our bedroom window, because it looked out over our patio and secluded back yard. As the sun rose, bright light filled the bedroom, almost suddenly, making for a very pleasant, yet insistent, natural alarm clock. I loved waking to the rising sun, and pacing my day accordingly, shifting with the seasons. Here in Georgia, the sunrise is different. Not so bright, not so insistent. It sort of sneaks up on you, and even with the curtains drawn aside, it is so drawn-out and so subtle, the sunrise is not quite enough to waken you with a “time to get up!” I still have not adjusted, I still have difficulty obeying the sun, or even figuring out when it has actually risen, and rising accordingly. I hope this will change with a few more seasons. I hate relying on alarm clocks.
I’ve read a few authors who talk about “knowing a place”. Dr. DeMille talks about patriotism being linked to “knowing a place”. John Gatto writes about a similar sense of “place” as related to belonging and patriotism. After 2+ years of living here, I’ve come to know this place, even if I’m not yet entirely acclimatized yet. I’ve settled in a very primitive and instinctual way, as well as adjusting to the visual display that I love so much. There are times when I miss the new-found awe and wonder I felt our first fall and winter here; it has been replaced by a familiarity that almost borders on dismissive. But, I still find myself grabbing my camera and capturing images that make me smile and warm each time I look over them. I still love sitting on the back deck in the swing reading to the kids, even when we have to wrap up in blankets. I love the trees, and the fallen leaves, and the squirrels, and the slightly different tone of the morning sun. I love the bulbs pushing up in February, bravely risking being doused with snow or frost after their bloom, which seems to happen every year. I love the explosion of white blossoms on the dogwoods, so profuse in our little town, and madly clustered at the onramp onto the Parkway. I’m not quite far enough along to call myself a “Georgian”; I am still a “Californian transplanted”. But, I love my home, my “place”, as much as I love my country. And, I would do much to protect it.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Proof Positive I'm a Genius. Sort of. (TJEd)
My dear friend, Sarah, sent me this article, called How to Procrastinate Like Leonardo da Vinci. I could have just reached right through the ethers and given her a great, big cyber kiss. It explains in no uncertain terms exactly why those of us who procrastinate and rarely finish everything we undertake are geniuses on par with daVinci. Okay, well, it doesn’t exactly say that. But, close enough to suit my purposes.
There has apparently been a modern attempt to psychologically dissect da Vinci and write him off as someone who was so terrified of financial success that he subconsciously sabotaged himself into utter failure by never finishing anything that he started, a theory which has apparently been put forth by those who champion mediocrity. The linked article has a somewhat different take, one that I am (biased as I am) more apt to accept as applicable: Genius and efficient productively are not necessary compatible.
Now, I have nothing against planning and organizing. Among my friends and closer homeschooling co-conspirators, I am known as an Organizational Goddess. Anything and everything that might possibly need to be structured, organized, and condensed into a handy form or graph, I’ve got it covered. And, my innate organization streak has served me well in a myriad of environments and circumstances, whether it be in my PC (pre-child) career as an office administrator and property manager, or at home trying to keep a household running with the precision of a Naval battle ship (that would be me being ironic).
However, I have recently noticed a particular trend that might suggest that organization for the purpose of maximum productively might not actually be totally conducive to Leadership Education (yes, I like using big words). During those spells when I blow off our family routine, such as during recent spats with flue and colds, and spend more of my time lounging and reading and thinking than if I were otherwise occupied with running the household and educating the kids, I seem to be more creative in the one aspect of my life that I feel even remotely creative in, and that is writing. Suddenly, instead of just composing a response to someone posting a concern on a homeschooling list, I’ve suddenly got twelve different ideas about several different topics running through my head, and if I take a moment to jot them down, I’ve got some raw material to work with, either in the moment or at some time in the (hopefully) near future. Since I’ve recently bowed to the omnipotence and intemperance of the Writing Muse, I have found myself, more and more, jotting down ideas and notes about ideas; a flow that had, in previous times, been stoppered most of the time, and only released in times of apparent need. Now, I can’t get through one day without a half-dozen ideas charging through my head, and the more I write them down, the more of them that show up on my doorstep like poor, desolate orphans, begging for someone to take them in and feed them.
The “downside” of this is, there is so much raw material that I will never be able to bring each to fruition, fully developed and ready to bring forth unto the world. Or, even post to my personal blog. They come too fast, and time is too short for me to give each of them full attention. (Yes, believe it or not, I am not posting every idea on the Community blog that flits into my tiny little brain…it just seems that way). So, for someone who considers themselves entirely – ENTIRELY – uncreative, this apparent hint of creatively is simultaneously unexpected, titillating, intimidating, and horrifyingly non-conformist.
So, here I am with 116 pages (over 54,000 words) of “ideas”, only a small fraction of which are currently fit for public consumption, none of which have made it out of my "idea" file (yes, I hear you all trembling in fear). Very few of these “ideas” will end up on my personal blog (yes, I hear the collective sigh of relief), which a very small number of people will actually ever read. None of them, I am sure, will ever make their way into mainstream thought. The novels that I frequently have running around in my head, I don’t even attempt to begin writing, because I know time will never allow me to do them justice. But, there they all are. Patiently waiting.
Leonardo daVinci “produced” an estimated 100 volumes worth of “notes” in his lifetime, the vast majority of which never earned him a single penny, or even ended up being used for “productive” purposes. But, all of those thoughts, all of those ideas, culminated to reflect a human being of extraordinary genius. Every thought and every idea, built one upon the other, is what enabled daVinci to create the extraordinary, breathtaking, and timeless masterpieces that he left us. So, what masterpieces lie silent, latent, and waiting in each of us “common” folk, just waiting for the lapse of time, space of silence, and moment of daydream, that will allow the Mona Lisa, or the David, or the Flying Machine, to come forth? Perhaps the religion of productivity is not serving us so well as the principle of idleness may. Daydreaming. Staring out the window. Doodling. Jotting down ideas which may or may not culminate in anything “productive” or “commercially viable”. But, perhaps the non-productive and non-commercially-viable ideas are the most valuable in the long run.
There has apparently been a modern attempt to psychologically dissect da Vinci and write him off as someone who was so terrified of financial success that he subconsciously sabotaged himself into utter failure by never finishing anything that he started, a theory which has apparently been put forth by those who champion mediocrity. The linked article has a somewhat different take, one that I am (biased as I am) more apt to accept as applicable: Genius and efficient productively are not necessary compatible.
Now, I have nothing against planning and organizing. Among my friends and closer homeschooling co-conspirators, I am known as an Organizational Goddess. Anything and everything that might possibly need to be structured, organized, and condensed into a handy form or graph, I’ve got it covered. And, my innate organization streak has served me well in a myriad of environments and circumstances, whether it be in my PC (pre-child) career as an office administrator and property manager, or at home trying to keep a household running with the precision of a Naval battle ship (that would be me being ironic).
However, I have recently noticed a particular trend that might suggest that organization for the purpose of maximum productively might not actually be totally conducive to Leadership Education (yes, I like using big words). During those spells when I blow off our family routine, such as during recent spats with flue and colds, and spend more of my time lounging and reading and thinking than if I were otherwise occupied with running the household and educating the kids, I seem to be more creative in the one aspect of my life that I feel even remotely creative in, and that is writing. Suddenly, instead of just composing a response to someone posting a concern on a homeschooling list, I’ve suddenly got twelve different ideas about several different topics running through my head, and if I take a moment to jot them down, I’ve got some raw material to work with, either in the moment or at some time in the (hopefully) near future. Since I’ve recently bowed to the omnipotence and intemperance of the Writing Muse, I have found myself, more and more, jotting down ideas and notes about ideas; a flow that had, in previous times, been stoppered most of the time, and only released in times of apparent need. Now, I can’t get through one day without a half-dozen ideas charging through my head, and the more I write them down, the more of them that show up on my doorstep like poor, desolate orphans, begging for someone to take them in and feed them.
The “downside” of this is, there is so much raw material that I will never be able to bring each to fruition, fully developed and ready to bring forth unto the world. Or, even post to my personal blog. They come too fast, and time is too short for me to give each of them full attention. (Yes, believe it or not, I am not posting every idea on the Community blog that flits into my tiny little brain…it just seems that way). So, for someone who considers themselves entirely – ENTIRELY – uncreative, this apparent hint of creatively is simultaneously unexpected, titillating, intimidating, and horrifyingly non-conformist.
So, here I am with 116 pages (over 54,000 words) of “ideas”, only a small fraction of which are currently fit for public consumption, none of which have made it out of my "idea" file (yes, I hear you all trembling in fear). Very few of these “ideas” will end up on my personal blog (yes, I hear the collective sigh of relief), which a very small number of people will actually ever read. None of them, I am sure, will ever make their way into mainstream thought. The novels that I frequently have running around in my head, I don’t even attempt to begin writing, because I know time will never allow me to do them justice. But, there they all are. Patiently waiting.
Leonardo daVinci “produced” an estimated 100 volumes worth of “notes” in his lifetime, the vast majority of which never earned him a single penny, or even ended up being used for “productive” purposes. But, all of those thoughts, all of those ideas, culminated to reflect a human being of extraordinary genius. Every thought and every idea, built one upon the other, is what enabled daVinci to create the extraordinary, breathtaking, and timeless masterpieces that he left us. So, what masterpieces lie silent, latent, and waiting in each of us “common” folk, just waiting for the lapse of time, space of silence, and moment of daydream, that will allow the Mona Lisa, or the David, or the Flying Machine, to come forth? Perhaps the religion of productivity is not serving us so well as the principle of idleness may. Daydreaming. Staring out the window. Doodling. Jotting down ideas which may or may not culminate in anything “productive” or “commercially viable”. But, perhaps the non-productive and non-commercially-viable ideas are the most valuable in the long run.
Saturday, March 7, 2009
My Grandfather's Eye (TJEd)
I know it’s supposed to be “she’s got her mother’s eyes”, but in my case (I hope), it’s closer to “she’s got her grandfather’s eye”.
My grandfather was a photographer. And a weaver. Okay, he was, technically, an engineer, but once he escaped his official career, he immersed himself in weaving and photography. He had “an eye” for photography, and an engineer’s meticulous mind. This was an absolutely perfect combination for creating his black-and-white Ansel Adam-style landscapes. Not so great when Grandpa wanted to take pictures of the grandkids. Kids just don’t sit still as long as valleys and trees and waterfalls do. I have several of my grandfather’s prints, and they are stunning in their beauty and composition and quietness. And, I remember, painfully, the day my three brothers and I sat for a portrait done by grandpa. Thankfully, his weavings were of landscapes, and not of children.
Today, it is snowing. This doesn’t happen very often in the Greater Atlanta Area, and my family has spent most of its cumulative life in Southern California in an area where it happened even less often. So, snow, for us, is a Big Fat Hairy Deal. Especially since we are only out in it for short spells, don’t have to work in it, don’t have to commute in it, and don’t have to shovel it. We go play in it for a while, we have a grand time, then we run inside for a hot tubby and a blazing fire. We love it.
But, there is just something about snow falling, and the rapidly changing landscape that impels me to grab the camera and start shooting. I suddenly begin seeing things in a different way, combinations of colors and shadows and textures that are just drawing me to see them. I shot off close to 100 photos in the course of about an hour, creating a visual history of the changes I was witnessing. Then, my camera died. Thankfully, I was able to retrieve the photos I had taken. But, there were still hours of beautiful light left in the day, beautiful children and giant dogs romping in the snow, comically timid cats delicately picking their way through the bare patches, bucketloads of beautiful, fat, wet snowflakes dropping and plopping from the sky. Without my camera, each passing moment, each gloppy slop of wet snow falling, is a moment forever lost in time, except in my own memory. I wish I could go back and catch each one of them, but they are gone.
Note: This was written on Sunday, while it was still snowing. I'll post a few pictures on My Page for anyone who would like to see them. Not all 100 pictures, I promise :)
My grandfather was a photographer. And a weaver. Okay, he was, technically, an engineer, but once he escaped his official career, he immersed himself in weaving and photography. He had “an eye” for photography, and an engineer’s meticulous mind. This was an absolutely perfect combination for creating his black-and-white Ansel Adam-style landscapes. Not so great when Grandpa wanted to take pictures of the grandkids. Kids just don’t sit still as long as valleys and trees and waterfalls do. I have several of my grandfather’s prints, and they are stunning in their beauty and composition and quietness. And, I remember, painfully, the day my three brothers and I sat for a portrait done by grandpa. Thankfully, his weavings were of landscapes, and not of children.
Today, it is snowing. This doesn’t happen very often in the Greater Atlanta Area, and my family has spent most of its cumulative life in Southern California in an area where it happened even less often. So, snow, for us, is a Big Fat Hairy Deal. Especially since we are only out in it for short spells, don’t have to work in it, don’t have to commute in it, and don’t have to shovel it. We go play in it for a while, we have a grand time, then we run inside for a hot tubby and a blazing fire. We love it.
But, there is just something about snow falling, and the rapidly changing landscape that impels me to grab the camera and start shooting. I suddenly begin seeing things in a different way, combinations of colors and shadows and textures that are just drawing me to see them. I shot off close to 100 photos in the course of about an hour, creating a visual history of the changes I was witnessing. Then, my camera died. Thankfully, I was able to retrieve the photos I had taken. But, there were still hours of beautiful light left in the day, beautiful children and giant dogs romping in the snow, comically timid cats delicately picking their way through the bare patches, bucketloads of beautiful, fat, wet snowflakes dropping and plopping from the sky. Without my camera, each passing moment, each gloppy slop of wet snow falling, is a moment forever lost in time, except in my own memory. I wish I could go back and catch each one of them, but they are gone.
Note: This was written on Sunday, while it was still snowing. I'll post a few pictures on My Page for anyone who would like to see them. Not all 100 pictures, I promise :)
Monday, February 23, 2009
You Just...Can't....Stop....Them! (TJEd)
Kids and technology. They’re joined at the hip. Or, more appropriately, hardwired to one another. You just can’t keep kids away from technology if it’s anywhere in the house or on their radar.
This is Thomas (9) on my brand-new laptop. That would be MY laptop, less than a week old, barely birthed from its box and midwifed by the Geek Squad. The laptop I FINALLY bought after a year-plus of debate, wrangling, angst, hand-wringing and, finally, justification (God bless tax refunds). By the way, my laptop has proven to be an exceptional Scholar tool, but I won’t go into that right now. Needless to say, I just can’t seem to keep Thomas’ greedy little paws off of it, and his brothers (including the four-year old) are lined up right behind him.
As depicted above, Thomas is in the process of looking up “hedgehog” on Wikipedia. I’m at a loss. When I was nine, we didn’t have Wikipedia, and we didn’t have laptops. We didn’t even have home computers (okay, I just dated myself, and not in a good way). I didn't even have access to a computer (at work) until I was well into my 20's. Now, kids just seem to have a “natural” affinity for computers that goes way beyond anything adults are able to comprehend. They figure out stuff effortlessly that us old fogies – um, I mean adults - have to take classes to learn how to do. If you need to figure out how to do anything on the computer, just ask a child, because chances are very good that even if they haven’t done it before, they’ll be able to figure it out in a few minutes, and then very matter-of-factly teach you how. If you have ANY doubt in your mind about kids’ capacity to self-teach using computers, check out this TED Talk on The Hole in the Wall Experiment (it’s a little ramble-y and not terribly slick, but hang in there because the conclusions are AWESOME).
So, here we are, trying to create a literate-rich environment for our kids, doing the TJEd “thing”, focusing on Classics, etc., etc, etc. And there’s my 9-year old on MY laptop looking up “hedgehogs” on Wikipedia. The up-side is, this is the biggest, fattest carrot imaginable, because I’ve very conscientiously taught Thomas the Phases, and explained that a laptop is a Scholar Tool. When he reaches Scholar Phase, he will get my laptop, and I’ll upgrade to a new one . He is now, he has declared, in Scholar Phase. I didn’t laugh. Really. (Okay, maybe I had to hold my breath to keep from laughing, and now I’m paying the price in hiccups).
So, is technology undermining our childrens’ educations? I don’t think so. We are a technologically astute family with computers and TV’s and cable and even a Wii. The kids spend time on these devices and enjoy them, and we even have Family Wii Night (this is a BLAST!, you really should join us if ever you are in the neighborhood).
But, they also LOVE books. Just try putting my kids to bed without a bedtime story, and you’ll be assaulted with indignant complaints of outrage and four-point arguments that would intimidate a Supreme Court Judge, until you finally concede and read to them (preferably while doing the “finger thing” so they can follow along). Almost as devastating, try sneaking off to the library (or, God forbid, the book store) by yourself for a little grown-up browsing, and you’ll have three kids sprinting down the driveway after you, tears of outrage streaming down their little faces, demanding to go along. When I first signed up for a library card at our local library and they told me there was a limit of thirty books, I almost laughed at them. “Thirty?!? Are you joking?!? We’ll never check out that many!” Well, now I have to put a limit on each child’s take-out, just so I can check out the items I’ve placed on hold myself (don’t you just LOVE placing books on hold at the library? ).
So, I guess the point I’m trying to make (yes, I know, do get ON with it!), is this: Old School classics-based education and New School technology-based education do not necessarily have to be mutually exclusive. There can be a balance, and that balance will, I believe, be IMPERITIVE during our childrens’ lifetimes. They must be absolutely literate in the Classics, as well as absolutely literate in Technology. Can’t you just envision the joining of the two? It’s almost breathtaking. And, OUR children will be doing it.
This is Thomas (9) on my brand-new laptop. That would be MY laptop, less than a week old, barely birthed from its box and midwifed by the Geek Squad. The laptop I FINALLY bought after a year-plus of debate, wrangling, angst, hand-wringing and, finally, justification (God bless tax refunds). By the way, my laptop has proven to be an exceptional Scholar tool, but I won’t go into that right now. Needless to say, I just can’t seem to keep Thomas’ greedy little paws off of it, and his brothers (including the four-year old) are lined up right behind him.
As depicted above, Thomas is in the process of looking up “hedgehog” on Wikipedia. I’m at a loss. When I was nine, we didn’t have Wikipedia, and we didn’t have laptops. We didn’t even have home computers (okay, I just dated myself, and not in a good way). I didn't even have access to a computer (at work) until I was well into my 20's. Now, kids just seem to have a “natural” affinity for computers that goes way beyond anything adults are able to comprehend. They figure out stuff effortlessly that us old fogies – um, I mean adults - have to take classes to learn how to do. If you need to figure out how to do anything on the computer, just ask a child, because chances are very good that even if they haven’t done it before, they’ll be able to figure it out in a few minutes, and then very matter-of-factly teach you how. If you have ANY doubt in your mind about kids’ capacity to self-teach using computers, check out this TED Talk on The Hole in the Wall Experiment (it’s a little ramble-y and not terribly slick, but hang in there because the conclusions are AWESOME).
So, here we are, trying to create a literate-rich environment for our kids, doing the TJEd “thing”, focusing on Classics, etc., etc, etc. And there’s my 9-year old on MY laptop looking up “hedgehogs” on Wikipedia. The up-side is, this is the biggest, fattest carrot imaginable, because I’ve very conscientiously taught Thomas the Phases, and explained that a laptop is a Scholar Tool. When he reaches Scholar Phase, he will get my laptop, and I’ll upgrade to a new one . He is now, he has declared, in Scholar Phase. I didn’t laugh. Really. (Okay, maybe I had to hold my breath to keep from laughing, and now I’m paying the price in hiccups).
So, is technology undermining our childrens’ educations? I don’t think so. We are a technologically astute family with computers and TV’s and cable and even a Wii. The kids spend time on these devices and enjoy them, and we even have Family Wii Night (this is a BLAST!, you really should join us if ever you are in the neighborhood).
But, they also LOVE books. Just try putting my kids to bed without a bedtime story, and you’ll be assaulted with indignant complaints of outrage and four-point arguments that would intimidate a Supreme Court Judge, until you finally concede and read to them (preferably while doing the “finger thing” so they can follow along). Almost as devastating, try sneaking off to the library (or, God forbid, the book store) by yourself for a little grown-up browsing, and you’ll have three kids sprinting down the driveway after you, tears of outrage streaming down their little faces, demanding to go along. When I first signed up for a library card at our local library and they told me there was a limit of thirty books, I almost laughed at them. “Thirty?!? Are you joking?!? We’ll never check out that many!” Well, now I have to put a limit on each child’s take-out, just so I can check out the items I’ve placed on hold myself (don’t you just LOVE placing books on hold at the library? ).
So, I guess the point I’m trying to make (yes, I know, do get ON with it!), is this: Old School classics-based education and New School technology-based education do not necessarily have to be mutually exclusive. There can be a balance, and that balance will, I believe, be IMPERITIVE during our childrens’ lifetimes. They must be absolutely literate in the Classics, as well as absolutely literate in Technology. Can’t you just envision the joining of the two? It’s almost breathtaking. And, OUR children will be doing it.
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
"The Real Crisis? We've stopped being wise" (TJEd)
I just can’t say enough about this talk by Barry Schwartz on wisdom (thanks, Terry for pointing it out to me). What’s great about this talk is not just what he says (although that is pretty satisfying), but who he is saying it to. TED in an annual invitation-only conference which includes about 2,000 of the most brilliant, influential, powerful and wealthy people out there. And, Mr. Schwartz is talking to them about virtue, service, mentorship, and moral will + moral skill (aka practical wisdom). He’s talking about why reliance on rules and incentives often has an effect opposite to our expected and desired result. And he’s talking to a room full of people who can get things done. That’s cool.
If you’re not familiar with the TED Talks, it can be a great way to graze mentally. There are some talks that aren’t very significant or pertinent, but there are a lot that are. Kind of like reading great books puts you in direct contact with the great minds that wrote them, these TED Talks are a way of spending about 20 minutes in direct contact with some of the greatest minds of our time. If you go sniffing around, be sure to check out Ken Robinson’s talk Do Schools Kill Creativity? and Steven Pinker on The Stuff of Thought.
Happy grazing!
If you’re not familiar with the TED Talks, it can be a great way to graze mentally. There are some talks that aren’t very significant or pertinent, but there are a lot that are. Kind of like reading great books puts you in direct contact with the great minds that wrote them, these TED Talks are a way of spending about 20 minutes in direct contact with some of the greatest minds of our time. If you go sniffing around, be sure to check out Ken Robinson’s talk Do Schools Kill Creativity? and Steven Pinker on The Stuff of Thought.
Happy grazing!
Sunday, February 15, 2009
Why Moms Blog (TEJd)
This is not as fluffy a topic as it sounds. Perhaps it is simply my own apologia. But, if you’ll bear with me for a bit, let me know what you think.
My friend, Grace, just started a blog. Grace is one of my brilliant mommy friends, one of the core group of brilliant ladies I’ve spoken of before, so I’m looking forward to reading her posts regularly. I have mixed feelings about blogging, just as I have mixed feelings about the internet. Both have an extraordinary potential to connect thinking minds together in a profound manner, unique to human history. In many ways, the internet and blogging are the new printing press, opening up a multi-dimensional dialogue in public debate which has been missing in our culture for generations. Most of us have lived our lives seeing only “one way” communication through the media; this Important Person (or Politician or Corporation) wants you to know this is how it is, and you really need not comment, just accept. Well, with the internet that is changing. We may not necessarily be able to have our voices heard by Important People or Politicians or Corporations (yet), but we Little People certainly are talking to one another, and the volume is increasing. The tide is rising, and pity the Important Person or Politician or Corporation that doesn’t at least make a show of acknowledging that We Are Out There.
The downside of the internet is Too Much Stuff. Anyone with access to a computer can put their Stuff out there, whether it’s worth putting out there or not, and this leaves most of us with a sense that some important voices may be drowned out in the overwhelming volume. It also leaves us with the question “Do I have anything to contribute?” What I love about Grace’s first blog post is that it pretty nicely encapsulates the most apparent questions, doubts, and ultimate reasons why many moms participate in blogging. Here are Grace's words:
Is Blogging the Epitome of Narcissim?
When I first heard about blogging I thought... how self centered can you be? Who wants to hear about the minutiae of your life? How impudent must you be to write day after day about your life and your family? After years of reading blogs I realized that I enjoy reading about all the treacherous, uplifting, mundane or hilarious elements of peoples lives. I have gotten some wonderful craft ideas, good homeschool references, great book suggestions, toy ideas, recipes, found links to other blogs and websites and more. In addition, it makes it easier to keep up with friends that live far afield.
Creative writing was a favorite subject in my undergraduate studies but years of technical writing, editing, and formatting sucked the life out of my creativity. So, maybe I can get a little of that back in this process. So, here goes. I am officially a narcissist.
So, why do moms blog? There are a thousand answers to that question, but I think a big part of it for many moms may be that it is a personal yet powerful form of expression during a period of her life when intelligent expression has been largely placed on hold. “I used to read great books and have great conversations with friends before I had kids”. “I used to have great troubleshooting sessions with colleagues in my field and write papers and wrangle with ideas before I had kids”. “I used to talk about something other than poopie diapers, picky eaters, and the consistency of spit up before I had kids”. So, I think there is an element of having a blank canvas and a full pallet of paint with paintbrush poised, a unique opportunity to express whatever is most important to her at this point in her life, with no restrictions on content.
Possibly even more primary, I think, it’s often the only time she feels like she can get a complete thought expressed in the way she means it to be expressed. In direct contrast with the rest of her existence wherein she can’t finish a sentence without being interrupted, can only dedicate about 50% of her communication capacity to speaking because her brain is working on several other things at the same time, or, best of all, fumbling for the correct word, missing, and being corrected by her precocious 4-year old (yes, I’m talking about me).
If, on the other hand, she is blogging, even if she is interrupted a dozen times (which she usually is), she can still go back, review her thought, fix it, continue it (usually), and get it “out there” in a way that pleases her (most of the time). And, by the way, thank goodness for the Thesaurus; without it I would never have pulled out the term "precocious". If she’s really lucky, her blogging time is “her” time, a quiet respite during which she can collect herself and do some reflection on life…mostly hers and her family's, but sometimes about larger matters as well. It helps her remember that she is an intelligent, eloquent and powerful woman, and offers up the opportunity to prove that to herself. "Others" don't necessarily matter in terms of proving.
But beyond the element of expression, and possibly even more primary, it is a way of marking the little milestones of her family and her Self, remembering to take photos when she might otherwise not, remembering to share something the kids did or made, noticing those things which might otherwise get missed. In my family, the women are the historians, writing the genealogies, collecting and caring for the family treasures, and passing on the family stories. At a time when multi-generational families are no longer the norm, and most kids are not being raised with their elders, there may be a sense that we need to preserve our daily lives in some significant way, lest something important in the next generation’s history be lost, or worse, overlooked in the haste of the moment.
When our days are so often so full and so chaotic and so frustrating and so dedicated to caring for others that we can’t get a firm grip on our own thoughts, sitting down at the computer and writing for a bit can be a much-needed balm for the spirit. And, in the process, we may end up leaving something that may one day be cherished by at least one child-now-grown. I think that’s why many moms blog, and maybe dads, too. Maybe we haven’t reached the pinnacle of our educations, we’re not yet stateswomen or the leaders we hope to someday be, and we’re not yet changing the world. But, we each have something significant to contribute, and this is one small way of doing that, from where we are sitting right now.
Okay, that may have been a little fluffy, but please pardon me my sense of satisfaction at writing something close to my heart. And, because I told myself I could only pick one (other than Grace), here is the most brilliant mom blogger I know. Kitmamma’s Pensieve. Okay, I'm probably biased because she happens to be a friend, but check out her piece called “My Broken Window” and see if it doesn’t stir your soul.
My friend, Grace, just started a blog. Grace is one of my brilliant mommy friends, one of the core group of brilliant ladies I’ve spoken of before, so I’m looking forward to reading her posts regularly. I have mixed feelings about blogging, just as I have mixed feelings about the internet. Both have an extraordinary potential to connect thinking minds together in a profound manner, unique to human history. In many ways, the internet and blogging are the new printing press, opening up a multi-dimensional dialogue in public debate which has been missing in our culture for generations. Most of us have lived our lives seeing only “one way” communication through the media; this Important Person (or Politician or Corporation) wants you to know this is how it is, and you really need not comment, just accept. Well, with the internet that is changing. We may not necessarily be able to have our voices heard by Important People or Politicians or Corporations (yet), but we Little People certainly are talking to one another, and the volume is increasing. The tide is rising, and pity the Important Person or Politician or Corporation that doesn’t at least make a show of acknowledging that We Are Out There.
The downside of the internet is Too Much Stuff. Anyone with access to a computer can put their Stuff out there, whether it’s worth putting out there or not, and this leaves most of us with a sense that some important voices may be drowned out in the overwhelming volume. It also leaves us with the question “Do I have anything to contribute?” What I love about Grace’s first blog post is that it pretty nicely encapsulates the most apparent questions, doubts, and ultimate reasons why many moms participate in blogging. Here are Grace's words:
Is Blogging the Epitome of Narcissim?
When I first heard about blogging I thought... how self centered can you be? Who wants to hear about the minutiae of your life? How impudent must you be to write day after day about your life and your family? After years of reading blogs I realized that I enjoy reading about all the treacherous, uplifting, mundane or hilarious elements of peoples lives. I have gotten some wonderful craft ideas, good homeschool references, great book suggestions, toy ideas, recipes, found links to other blogs and websites and more. In addition, it makes it easier to keep up with friends that live far afield.
Creative writing was a favorite subject in my undergraduate studies but years of technical writing, editing, and formatting sucked the life out of my creativity. So, maybe I can get a little of that back in this process. So, here goes. I am officially a narcissist.
So, why do moms blog? There are a thousand answers to that question, but I think a big part of it for many moms may be that it is a personal yet powerful form of expression during a period of her life when intelligent expression has been largely placed on hold. “I used to read great books and have great conversations with friends before I had kids”. “I used to have great troubleshooting sessions with colleagues in my field and write papers and wrangle with ideas before I had kids”. “I used to talk about something other than poopie diapers, picky eaters, and the consistency of spit up before I had kids”. So, I think there is an element of having a blank canvas and a full pallet of paint with paintbrush poised, a unique opportunity to express whatever is most important to her at this point in her life, with no restrictions on content.
Possibly even more primary, I think, it’s often the only time she feels like she can get a complete thought expressed in the way she means it to be expressed. In direct contrast with the rest of her existence wherein she can’t finish a sentence without being interrupted, can only dedicate about 50% of her communication capacity to speaking because her brain is working on several other things at the same time, or, best of all, fumbling for the correct word, missing, and being corrected by her precocious 4-year old (yes, I’m talking about me).
If, on the other hand, she is blogging, even if she is interrupted a dozen times (which she usually is), she can still go back, review her thought, fix it, continue it (usually), and get it “out there” in a way that pleases her (most of the time). And, by the way, thank goodness for the Thesaurus; without it I would never have pulled out the term "precocious". If she’s really lucky, her blogging time is “her” time, a quiet respite during which she can collect herself and do some reflection on life…mostly hers and her family's, but sometimes about larger matters as well. It helps her remember that she is an intelligent, eloquent and powerful woman, and offers up the opportunity to prove that to herself. "Others" don't necessarily matter in terms of proving.
But beyond the element of expression, and possibly even more primary, it is a way of marking the little milestones of her family and her Self, remembering to take photos when she might otherwise not, remembering to share something the kids did or made, noticing those things which might otherwise get missed. In my family, the women are the historians, writing the genealogies, collecting and caring for the family treasures, and passing on the family stories. At a time when multi-generational families are no longer the norm, and most kids are not being raised with their elders, there may be a sense that we need to preserve our daily lives in some significant way, lest something important in the next generation’s history be lost, or worse, overlooked in the haste of the moment.
When our days are so often so full and so chaotic and so frustrating and so dedicated to caring for others that we can’t get a firm grip on our own thoughts, sitting down at the computer and writing for a bit can be a much-needed balm for the spirit. And, in the process, we may end up leaving something that may one day be cherished by at least one child-now-grown. I think that’s why many moms blog, and maybe dads, too. Maybe we haven’t reached the pinnacle of our educations, we’re not yet stateswomen or the leaders we hope to someday be, and we’re not yet changing the world. But, we each have something significant to contribute, and this is one small way of doing that, from where we are sitting right now.
Okay, that may have been a little fluffy, but please pardon me my sense of satisfaction at writing something close to my heart. And, because I told myself I could only pick one (other than Grace), here is the most brilliant mom blogger I know. Kitmamma’s Pensieve. Okay, I'm probably biased because she happens to be a friend, but check out her piece called “My Broken Window” and see if it doesn’t stir your soul.
Dun Dun Dun, etc. – Part Two (TJEd)
The boys’ Nana and cousin were over yesterday, and the kids put together a little impromptu “talent night”. While William and Michael acted out a lightsaber duel in the family room, Thomas played the Star Wars Theme as a piano accompaniment. Reminded me of the original movie houses with the black & white silent film playing while an organist played music. I just couldn’t stop giggling because they were all so serious, and worked so hard on putting together a show for the adults, and it was just so “kid” in such a charming way. I’m chuckling just remembering it. I hope to remember it for a long, long time.
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Kangaroos for Bambi? (TJEd)
I'm not sure any explanation is possible, but I'm going to do my best.
I'm reading Bambi to the boys. It's my first time through, so I'm proceeding cautiously. We reached the part where the human hunters have invaded the forest, killing everything in sight. Poor Gobo, frail and exhausted, has collapsed in the snow, his mother forced to abandon him to his fate to protect herself and his sister, Faline. After finding him lying there helpless, Bambi pauses, but cannot help his friend, and so ultimately dashes away at Gobo's insistence.
"Why doesn't Bambi help Gobo?". That's Thomas asking.
"What do you think Bambi could do to help Gobo?" I just love putting the ball back in their court, and making them think about it.
"He could get his mom". Thomas still thinks mom can fix everything.
"If Bambi could find his mom and Gobo's mom, what do you think the moms could do for Gobo?"
"They could help him run".
This quickly moves into a conversation about how from the moment of birth, young deer must be able to stand and move on their own, or risk being killed by predators. Deer don't have hands, and can't carry their young in the way that humans, primates, and other animals may be able to do, so their young have to be mobile almost immediately. Gobo's mom can't just pick him up and carry him to safety. She is forced to leave him lying there, helpless, to be murdered by the humans. What a horrific burden faced by Gobo's mother. What a horrific dilemma faced by a child listening to this story for the first time.
After concluding the chapter, Thomas finds his own way of dealing with this emotional turmoil. He runs upstairs and dons the kangaroo costume. He then goes through considerable machinations to insert Michael (4) into his "pouch", thereby assuring that his youngest brother will never be left floundering helpless in the snow to meet an untimely and horrific end. It's a game for the boys. But, also a way to work through and resolve an emotional dilemma that is almost beyond their compreshension or ability to process and resolve.
"Acting out" would be an apt term. Working through something in a very physical manner, to come to an emotional wrap-up that they're able to "sit with". It's another one of those "boy things" that I only vaguely understand, but try to recognize and embrace as it presents itself.
It seems to have worked in this case. Everyone is smiling.
Monday, February 9, 2009
“Did You See What Michael Did?” (TJEd)
This was not a statement of one brother tattling on another. This was a statement of pride and appreciation, coming from our nine-year-old son in reference to his four-year-old brother.
We were at the park, gathering together with our usual once-a-week playgroup. This group, in some form or another, has been meeting up for about a year and a half now. We’ve got a nice core of families, and have been very happy to have a couple of additional families add into the mix in the past few months. It’s something I look forward to each week, because I get to sit down and chat with some of the smartest women I know. Moms from varying backgrounds, each with an impressive educational and/or professional background (except for me), each committed to homeschooling their children, and each feeling somewhat a “minority” in our larger community of neighborhood “church-goers” and “homeschooling for religious reasons” folks. We have tended to “band together” for support and encouragement. This is one of the most lovely and brilliant groups of ladies I have ever had the privilege of knowing and associating with.
But, I digress. Our mom with the largest brood had just arrived, and one of her younger girls had taken off toward the playground, forgetting that there were several steps down from the picnic table area. She took a dive down the steps onto the concrete sidewalk, and was crying. Mom was juggling several other children, including an infant, and was doing her best to get down to the injured child, although was somewhat waylaid. When I looked up, Mike (4) was right there next to the little girl, holding her hand, and looking concernedly into her little face, talking to her, clearly doing his best to comfort her until mom arrived. My tender mommy heart could have burst.
Crisis resolved, that’s when Tom came over to me, almost imperceptibly whispering “Did you see what Michael did?”, wanting to point out to me what a great little guy his youngest brother was. "Wasn't that great?". My tender mommy heart just about burst again…
We were at the park, gathering together with our usual once-a-week playgroup. This group, in some form or another, has been meeting up for about a year and a half now. We’ve got a nice core of families, and have been very happy to have a couple of additional families add into the mix in the past few months. It’s something I look forward to each week, because I get to sit down and chat with some of the smartest women I know. Moms from varying backgrounds, each with an impressive educational and/or professional background (except for me), each committed to homeschooling their children, and each feeling somewhat a “minority” in our larger community of neighborhood “church-goers” and “homeschooling for religious reasons” folks. We have tended to “band together” for support and encouragement. This is one of the most lovely and brilliant groups of ladies I have ever had the privilege of knowing and associating with.
But, I digress. Our mom with the largest brood had just arrived, and one of her younger girls had taken off toward the playground, forgetting that there were several steps down from the picnic table area. She took a dive down the steps onto the concrete sidewalk, and was crying. Mom was juggling several other children, including an infant, and was doing her best to get down to the injured child, although was somewhat waylaid. When I looked up, Mike (4) was right there next to the little girl, holding her hand, and looking concernedly into her little face, talking to her, clearly doing his best to comfort her until mom arrived. My tender mommy heart could have burst.
Crisis resolved, that’s when Tom came over to me, almost imperceptibly whispering “Did you see what Michael did?”, wanting to point out to me what a great little guy his youngest brother was. "Wasn't that great?". My tender mommy heart just about burst again…
Thursday, February 5, 2009
“I Want One!” (TJEd)
I’ve previously posted that "we" have three boys, ages 4, 7 and 9. Let me issue a modification of that statement. "I" have four boys, ages 4, 7, 9 and 42.
I’ve been knitting scarves and hats for the three younger boys, and recently finished Will’s scarf. When hubby saw it, he immediately said “I want one!”. And added “Can I have it before I leave for Denver?”. That was last Sunday. He’s leaving this Sunday. Can I knit a scarf in one week? Hmmmmm. I just might make it, only because I knit while I read, and obviously while I watch television. We started in on The Lord of the Rings trilogy last night, to be continued today. I also wanted to get in a viewing of A Midsummer Night’s Dream with the boys before I take them to the play tomorrow. It’s looking promising…
Luv ya, honey!
I’ve been knitting scarves and hats for the three younger boys, and recently finished Will’s scarf. When hubby saw it, he immediately said “I want one!”. And added “Can I have it before I leave for Denver?”. That was last Sunday. He’s leaving this Sunday. Can I knit a scarf in one week? Hmmmmm. I just might make it, only because I knit while I read, and obviously while I watch television. We started in on The Lord of the Rings trilogy last night, to be continued today. I also wanted to get in a viewing of A Midsummer Night’s Dream with the boys before I take them to the play tomorrow. It’s looking promising…
Luv ya, honey!
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
Dun Dun Dun Duuuuun Duuuuun, Dun Dun Dun Duuuuun Duuuuun, … (TJEd)
Tom (9) is learning to play the Star Wars Theme on the piano. He’s in LoL Phase, so he doesn’t really “study” piano, he “plays at” piano. His dad is helping him with some basics, and he’s learning to play “by heart”. He doesn’t sit down and practice for a 20 minute session every day, he just plunks down and works on it for a few minutes at a time, several times a day, usually when someone else is trying to have a conversation in the same room. He’s comfortable with the piano, seems to enjoy the challenge of learning a piece of music, and particularly gets a kick out of showing off his progress.
I’m one of those people for whom tunes get stuck in my head easily, and seem to hold on for very long periods of time. If I happen to hear the same tune several times in a day, or for more than one day in a row, that tune pretty much is permanently embedded until another persistent tune comes along to dislodge it and take its place. It can, at times, be maddening. Not just because I’ve got a tune, not of my conscious choosing, stuck in my head, but because I tend to unconsciously hum said tune. A lot. Any time I’m not doing something that requires active, semi-directed thought, I’m humming. Washing the dishes, folding the laundry, sweeping the floor, cooking dinner. Whatever, wherever, whenever. I’m humming, and mostly not even aware of it. And, I’m humming the tune that’s stuck in my head, which means I’m hearing it again, which reinforces the tune’s strangle hold on my mind, so I hum it more, so…. You get the idea.
I remind myself of a Robert Heinlein character (I can’t remember which, it’s been so long since I’ve read his books, but I think it was Lazarus Long) who said that his subconscious humming indicated that all systems were “go”, and everything was a-okay. I’m pretty much the same way. If I’m washing the dishes and I’m NOT humming, you better bet I’ve got a bee in my bonnet about something, or I’m chewing on a concept or idea which requires my attention. My kids haven’t figured out yet that if Mommy is not humming, it’s probably not the best time to talk to her. Maybe I should clue them in…
But, regardless of the possible ramifications of humming, I would really like to wake up in the middle of the night and NOT have The Star Wars Theme playing in my head. Just once. Maybe a little Mozart instead?
Monday, February 2, 2009
Family Treasures (TJEd)
My husband came home with a stack of old books, a gift from him mom. They are all books that belonged to my husband’s family, as far back as his grandmother. I love old books, and my wonderful mother-in-law knows this. So, you can imagine how pleased and touched I was that these books are now part of our library.
There really is nothing more to say, except "Thank you".
There really is nothing more to say, except "Thank you".
Sunday, February 1, 2009
What did you learn at Bible Study tonight? (TJEd)
I asked this of our 9-year old son. For a couple of months, now, he’s been toddling off with our neighbors to their Wednesday night Bible Study. The main attraction for Tom, I think, is the visit to our local pizza joint, Stevie B’s, and the opportunity to play arcade games there before moving on to The Church. Although we’re not Christians, and I’ve quietly disclosed to our lovely neighbor that we’re a non-religious family, she still seems content (sometimes maybe a little determined) to invite our boys to Wednesday night Bible Study with their family. For me, it’s supporting our kids in their exploration of religion. For Tom, it’s free food, arcade games, and socializing. Sometimes they even have a bouncy-house.
So, like a good mom, each night when Tom returns from Bible Study, I ask him “So, what did you learn at Bible Study tonight?” His answer is pretty much the same each week.
“Nothing much”.
“You didn’t learn anything tonight?”
“Not really. Just some old stuff.”
“Oh. What old stuff?”
“I don’t remember.”
Whatever the lesson was, it doesn’t seem to have stuck.
So, like a good mom, each night when Tom returns from Bible Study, I ask him “So, what did you learn at Bible Study tonight?” His answer is pretty much the same each week.
“Nothing much”.
“You didn’t learn anything tonight?”
“Not really. Just some old stuff.”
“Oh. What old stuff?”
“I don’t remember.”
Whatever the lesson was, it doesn’t seem to have stuck.
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