Sleepover. Our first one to host, the Boy's first one ever. His best friend, whose parents I adore, whose Methodist church we attended last Sunday. Uneventful, mostly, despite my having to shut down the network at 11:30 to get them to go to bed. Now, they're back on the computer. I suggested to the Boy that he let his friend handle the mouse. Mom, he's mentoring me. Lucas nods in agreement.
Side note: Is mentoring a word I would have used at 10? Don't think so.
Snow. The prediction of 1-2 inches precipitated a rush on bread, beer and milk at every grocery store in town, I'm sure. The Husband braved it for us on his way home from work. This morning, I opened the shade and looked down on our Miata, it's red painted lightly dusted with tiny polka dots of snow. That's it. They're saying maybe more snow today. We'll see.
Sudafed. We're out of it. Time to go get treated like a criminal again. Discussing it at the table Thursday night with my mom & sister, over enchiladas after the carriage ride through Winter Wonderland. Apparently Walgreen's doesn't call every store in town when they buy it. Why do they do that to you? asked the Shrimp. I give her the standard answer--Beats me, same reason I get the extended airport search I guess--and she shakes her head. No, you've done something. I've done Nothing. I live a calm, quiet life. I always have. Maybe I just look like a redneck?
Side note: I'm ready for these trains to be put together and the boxes out of my living room.
the Slate. Shopping, cleaning, some work, maybe a little bit of gift wrapping, maybe I'll put that last string of lights in the rectangular window in the living room. Or maybe I'll just skip it all and sit here on the sofa with Medusa in my lap, drink coffee and write as I watch the snow fall into the park beyond my Christmas tree.
Saturday, December 19, 2009
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Wordless Wednesday: the Week in Review
Surrounded by birthday loot.
He shot me!
Advent III
Tinsel Tree
Well Trained
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
I already passed fourth grade Science, thanks so much.
It's 3:24 a.m.
I've been awake for over an hour, and I'm pissed.
Not drunk pissed, my British slang speaking friends, but angry and upset.
Why, you ask?
Science Fair.
Back in October we got a letter from the new Science teacher at school. She indicated that she felt the way that Science Fair had been handled in the past was pedagogically inappropriate. This year, children 3rd grade and under would do a class project, and those in 4th and 5th grade would complete the vast majority of their projects at school.
The Husband and I were relieved. Maybe finally this would be a positive, age-appropriate experience.
Our optimism is being duly rewarded.
The first sign of trouble came a few weeks ago, in my awareness that the school was making the blanket assumption that students had a computer, internet access, and a printer at home.
The next sign was more subtle. There was a note in the Boy's agenda that they were doing research for their Science Fair projects. I don't remember if I asked him about it or not. I think I assumed [despite Helene's mother warning me, some 25 years ago, that when one assumes one makes an Ass of (yo)u and me] that he was fine. After all, he was only required to have three sources and there were four listed on his project description, along with a whole list of topics to jumpstart background research. And I brought home my copy of the seminal book on ergonomics, Dreyfuss's Measure of Man and Woman.
This has now all suddenly hit the fan, the week before Christmas break.
Last week I saw in this agenda that they were working on background reports in class. Since I didn't hear anything about it when I asked about homework on Friday, I assumed (there's that word again) that everything was under control.
It was a good weekend. Saturday we celebrated his birthday with his friends and with the family. We went to church at a small Methodist church where it turns out we have several friends. We rearranged furniture, hauled the artificial (sniff) trees and the decorations out of the basement, hung stockings, played a game of Clue.
Sunday night, 8:45 p.m. The Boy suddenly got out his Science Fair notebook. I've got to have the draft background report done tomorrow.
Well, tough. You should have thought of it earlier. It's bedtime now.
After a bit of protest he set his alarm for 5:45, intending to get up and work on it.
I got up at 6:00 to a dark house. I thought about waking him up, but decided against it. The hour passed, and at 7:00 I issued my standard call to the sleepers.
For once, the Boy sat bolt upright in his bed and came down immediately. He walked to the dining room, where his notebook waited on the table.
No, you can't do that now. I said. You slept too late. It's time to get dressed and ready for school.
But Ms. M is going to be so pissed off. Tears were flowing across his freckled cheeks.
Well, so be it. You shouldn't have waited until the eleventh hour. Go get dressed and you can work on it when you're ready to go.
Tonight there was a note in his agenda. Draft background report due today, in Ms. M's neat cursive. In the Boy's hand, notes about math homework due tomorrow, and a typed sheet outlining the Equations Tournaments for the year. I let him putter for a while, get a snack, play with his new Lego Y Fighter.
Ok, it's time to get to work. You gotta get that math done and that report you were so upset about this morning.
He laid on the floor with the math book, dividing his time between it and helping his sister do things on the computer. When they began to argue after a few minutes, I made him move to the dining room table, and it was done in short order. I let him play with the electric trolley under the tree for bit, then said. Hey, it's time to do that report.
He took the red folder out of his bag, laid it on the table, and stared at it. Took a sheet out that I'd seen a few times before--a sheet that had places for him to write in all the key elements of the report--a summary of the research, the variables, etc.
And he stared at it for the better part of an hour while his father and I chatted, listened to the news, cooked homemade chicken noodle soup.
We ate supper in the kitchen, watching a Nature episode about sharks in the Cocos Islands of Costa Rica. At the end, I realized it was 9 p.m. again, that the Girl was up late, and it was time for the Boy to get ready for bed. I looked at his sheet and realized nothing was done. He was almost in tears again.
According to my son, he was only given two opportunities to do research at school. He's been taught that the most relevant hits will be the first three (debatable) and that Wikipedia is evil. (also debatable). He googled "human time efficiency": the first two hits are useless, and the third one, while relevant, was Wikipedia. He googled "Frank and Lillian Gilbreth" and came up with this mostly irrelevant article. He couldn't see how any of the information he found on one of the given sources--the Institute of Industrial Engineers website--was relevant to his project. He was also told that he needed "newer sources." He didn't understand how to find them, and noone explained it to him. To be fair, he didn't ask, but it seems like somebody should have spent 5 minutes discerning his problem and helping him figure it out.
I used to teach Human Factors in my design studios, so this is a topic in which I actually have some interest and background. Aside from some Steelcase White Papers in the 1990's--which had mainly to do with increasing white-collar worker productivity in office settings through better furniture and lighting--I know of very little current work on human movement and efficiency. The Gilbreths were contemporaries of Frederick Taylor (d. 1915) and Henry Ford (d. 1947), and the work of the three largely complemented each other. Most of the important source work on ergonomics and design was done by '50s and '60s Modernists, who believed that form followed function and did the research to back up their design decisions. I would be surprised if there is much written on the topic at an appropriate level for a ten year old.
So now, I'm angry, angry enough that I woke up in the middle of the night needing to get it out of my system.
It's just wrong.
I've been awake for over an hour, and I'm pissed.
Not drunk pissed, my British slang speaking friends, but angry and upset.
Why, you ask?
Science Fair.
Back in October we got a letter from the new Science teacher at school. She indicated that she felt the way that Science Fair had been handled in the past was pedagogically inappropriate. This year, children 3rd grade and under would do a class project, and those in 4th and 5th grade would complete the vast majority of their projects at school.
The Husband and I were relieved. Maybe finally this would be a positive, age-appropriate experience.
Our optimism is being duly rewarded.
The first sign of trouble came a few weeks ago, in my awareness that the school was making the blanket assumption that students had a computer, internet access, and a printer at home.
The next sign was more subtle. There was a note in the Boy's agenda that they were doing research for their Science Fair projects. I don't remember if I asked him about it or not. I think I assumed [despite Helene's mother warning me, some 25 years ago, that when one assumes one makes an Ass of (yo)u and me] that he was fine. After all, he was only required to have three sources and there were four listed on his project description, along with a whole list of topics to jumpstart background research. And I brought home my copy of the seminal book on ergonomics, Dreyfuss's Measure of Man and Woman.
This has now all suddenly hit the fan, the week before Christmas break.
Last week I saw in this agenda that they were working on background reports in class. Since I didn't hear anything about it when I asked about homework on Friday, I assumed (there's that word again) that everything was under control.
It was a good weekend. Saturday we celebrated his birthday with his friends and with the family. We went to church at a small Methodist church where it turns out we have several friends. We rearranged furniture, hauled the artificial (sniff) trees and the decorations out of the basement, hung stockings, played a game of Clue.
Sunday night, 8:45 p.m. The Boy suddenly got out his Science Fair notebook. I've got to have the draft background report done tomorrow.
Well, tough. You should have thought of it earlier. It's bedtime now.
After a bit of protest he set his alarm for 5:45, intending to get up and work on it.
I got up at 6:00 to a dark house. I thought about waking him up, but decided against it. The hour passed, and at 7:00 I issued my standard call to the sleepers.
For once, the Boy sat bolt upright in his bed and came down immediately. He walked to the dining room, where his notebook waited on the table.
No, you can't do that now. I said. You slept too late. It's time to get dressed and ready for school.
But Ms. M is going to be so pissed off. Tears were flowing across his freckled cheeks.
Well, so be it. You shouldn't have waited until the eleventh hour. Go get dressed and you can work on it when you're ready to go.
Tonight there was a note in his agenda. Draft background report due today, in Ms. M's neat cursive. In the Boy's hand, notes about math homework due tomorrow, and a typed sheet outlining the Equations Tournaments for the year. I let him putter for a while, get a snack, play with his new Lego Y Fighter.
Ok, it's time to get to work. You gotta get that math done and that report you were so upset about this morning.
He laid on the floor with the math book, dividing his time between it and helping his sister do things on the computer. When they began to argue after a few minutes, I made him move to the dining room table, and it was done in short order. I let him play with the electric trolley under the tree for bit, then said. Hey, it's time to do that report.
He took the red folder out of his bag, laid it on the table, and stared at it. Took a sheet out that I'd seen a few times before--a sheet that had places for him to write in all the key elements of the report--a summary of the research, the variables, etc.
And he stared at it for the better part of an hour while his father and I chatted, listened to the news, cooked homemade chicken noodle soup.
We ate supper in the kitchen, watching a Nature episode about sharks in the Cocos Islands of Costa Rica. At the end, I realized it was 9 p.m. again, that the Girl was up late, and it was time for the Boy to get ready for bed. I looked at his sheet and realized nothing was done. He was almost in tears again.
According to my son, he was only given two opportunities to do research at school. He's been taught that the most relevant hits will be the first three (debatable) and that Wikipedia is evil. (also debatable). He googled "human time efficiency": the first two hits are useless, and the third one, while relevant, was Wikipedia. He googled "Frank and Lillian Gilbreth" and came up with this mostly irrelevant article. He couldn't see how any of the information he found on one of the given sources--the Institute of Industrial Engineers website--was relevant to his project. He was also told that he needed "newer sources." He didn't understand how to find them, and noone explained it to him. To be fair, he didn't ask, but it seems like somebody should have spent 5 minutes discerning his problem and helping him figure it out.
I used to teach Human Factors in my design studios, so this is a topic in which I actually have some interest and background. Aside from some Steelcase White Papers in the 1990's--which had mainly to do with increasing white-collar worker productivity in office settings through better furniture and lighting--I know of very little current work on human movement and efficiency. The Gilbreths were contemporaries of Frederick Taylor (d. 1915) and Henry Ford (d. 1947), and the work of the three largely complemented each other. Most of the important source work on ergonomics and design was done by '50s and '60s Modernists, who believed that form followed function and did the research to back up their design decisions. I would be surprised if there is much written on the topic at an appropriate level for a ten year old.
So now, I'm angry, angry enough that I woke up in the middle of the night needing to get it out of my system.
- I'm angry that I believed it when I was told this was and could be a school-based assignment.
- I'm angry that I've let it go on this long without intervening.
- I'm angry that noone told me that I needed to shepherd the research and background report.
- I'm angry that my son's project doesn't seem to have a verifiable experiment despite theoretically being monitored by the teacher.
- I'm angry that my son understands nothing about what he's supposed to be doing.
- I'm angry that once again, at least a month of my family's time will be spent focused on Science Fair work, nagging, shouting, tears, etc. Maybe I should be thankful that it's not a whole quarter, as it's been in the past, but I'm not.
- I'm angry that this all falls during a time of year when we should be focused on enjoying time with the family and religious observance--Thanksgiving, both children's birthdays, and the entire Advent/Christmas/Epiphany season.
- I'm angry that I'm going to have to spend time next week, during Christmas Break, dealing with this and the stupid "pick 7 nonfiction books by these authors and write book reports" assignments (which most of my parent friends report to be akin to pulling teeth without anesthesia) rather than allowing my kids to relax and have fun.
- I'm angry to have yet another distraction when I have not only holiday preparations to complete, but actual paying work to finish before I can go to Arkansas to enjoy holiday celebrations with family and friends.
- I'm angry that I am so stressed about this that I woke up in the middle of the bleeding night worrying about it. I shouldn't have anxiety on this level over my child's homework. It's fourth grade, not freaking medical school.
It's just wrong.
Monday, December 14, 2009
Christmas Lists
I should have seen the trouble coming, to tell the truth.
But there it was, one Saturday afternoon, running up the hall. Mama! the Girl cried. (the Boy) says there's no such thing as Santa Claus! He says it's you!
Her brother lurked behind her with a smirk on his face.
What do you think? I asked her. Do I have a long white beard and a big round belly? a red suit with white fur trimmings?
She looked relieved. No.
Ok, then. Go play.
A little while later the Boy wandered back into the kitchen, alone. Your sister asleep?
She's out.
Now, you. I said sternly. You can beleive what you want about Santa Claus, but don't ruin your sister's fun, got it? or anybody else's. That's just mean.
He looked surprised, and then mumbled. Ok, then.
No, I mean it. What do you say?
Yes, Ma'am.
And we left it at that.
A few days later, Mom asked me about Christmas lists and I realized we hadn't addressed that yet. I walked into the sunroom, where both children sat surrounded by Legos, blocks, and Hot Wheels. Have y'all written letters to Santa yet? The Boy rolled his eyes and smirked. I looked directly at the Girl. I know you started one, are you done yet?
No, Mama. I'll finish it, but I'm playing.
A couple of days later I went into their room seeking dirty clothes. On her file cabinet, the Girl had left a piece of paper with a few things cut out of the newpaper taped to it. At the top of the sheet, I saw written:
Dear Santa,
Last year I think I ask for too much, so this is it. Thank you.
The pictures were of an iPod Shuffle, a 12-Bin Organizer from Target, and a WebKinz.
Now, I know of other things she wants: a wardrobe and a stroller for her Build-a-Bears, a pair of Heelies, a NintendoDSi ... and clothes and boots and a Snuggie. But I found the note both touching and sensitive, like her giving up lunch this summer. Beyond her years.
As for the Boy, I have no idea. Maybe a bundle of switches.
We'll just have to see what the jolly old elf drops under the tree.
But there it was, one Saturday afternoon, running up the hall. Mama! the Girl cried. (the Boy) says there's no such thing as Santa Claus! He says it's you!
Her brother lurked behind her with a smirk on his face.
What do you think? I asked her. Do I have a long white beard and a big round belly? a red suit with white fur trimmings?
She looked relieved. No.
Ok, then. Go play.
A little while later the Boy wandered back into the kitchen, alone. Your sister asleep?
She's out.
Now, you. I said sternly. You can beleive what you want about Santa Claus, but don't ruin your sister's fun, got it? or anybody else's. That's just mean.
He looked surprised, and then mumbled. Ok, then.
No, I mean it. What do you say?
Yes, Ma'am.
And we left it at that.
A few days later, Mom asked me about Christmas lists and I realized we hadn't addressed that yet. I walked into the sunroom, where both children sat surrounded by Legos, blocks, and Hot Wheels. Have y'all written letters to Santa yet? The Boy rolled his eyes and smirked. I looked directly at the Girl. I know you started one, are you done yet?
No, Mama. I'll finish it, but I'm playing.
A couple of days later I went into their room seeking dirty clothes. On her file cabinet, the Girl had left a piece of paper with a few things cut out of the newpaper taped to it. At the top of the sheet, I saw written:
Dear Santa,
Last year I think I ask for too much, so this is it. Thank you.
The pictures were of an iPod Shuffle, a 12-Bin Organizer from Target, and a WebKinz.
Now, I know of other things she wants: a wardrobe and a stroller for her Build-a-Bears, a pair of Heelies, a NintendoDSi ... and clothes and boots and a Snuggie. But I found the note both touching and sensitive, like her giving up lunch this summer. Beyond her years.
As for the Boy, I have no idea. Maybe a bundle of switches.
We'll just have to see what the jolly old elf drops under the tree.
Monday, December 07, 2009
I'm Not Ready for Monday
It's early yet, I think. Still dark, only the faintest hints of the sun bringing the ambient light in the house from dark, blackish indigo to deep cold grey. I tiptoe through the cave of our bedroom to the bathroom, put in the stopper, turned on the hot water for my bath. Going back through, I spoke to the lump in the bed. It's 7:08. I thought you were getting an early start today.
Turning left in the hall, I walk into the kids' room, flip on the light. Opening the closet doors, I flip through the gold and white shirts, the navy jumpers, to find the Girl's Brownie vest and tshirt and a khaki skirt. Picking my way over stuffed animals and blankets, I make my way to her dresser in the sunroom to pull a pair of panties and white tights with strawberries woven into the fabric. Hey, G--. I say. It's 7:10. Time to get up. And I need you to be efficient because we need to do the dishes this morning--(he's doing his Science Fair project on anthropometrics and human efficiency)--and I've been waiting them on you. And you have an orthodontist appointment at 9:00, too.
He moans from his loft. Oh my God, it's Monday.
Back into my room, still dark. Check the water temperature, adjust the faucet, walk back to the door. Sweetheart, are you getting up?
Moan. I'm not ready for Monday.
I thought about the dishes, the mountain of laundry in the hall still undone because of the weekend's activities, shop drawings I carried in my bag all weekend meaning to review, millwork design to be completed, proposals and emails to be written, a small gift to be purchased for the Boy's birthday tomorrow, the birthday party on Saturday to clean up and make food for, planning for the Girl's birthday party to be done, the Husband's trip this week, and Brownies and Chess and and and ....
I took a deep breath and said, I don't think anyone's ready for Monday.
Turning left in the hall, I walk into the kids' room, flip on the light. Opening the closet doors, I flip through the gold and white shirts, the navy jumpers, to find the Girl's Brownie vest and tshirt and a khaki skirt. Picking my way over stuffed animals and blankets, I make my way to her dresser in the sunroom to pull a pair of panties and white tights with strawberries woven into the fabric. Hey, G--. I say. It's 7:10. Time to get up. And I need you to be efficient because we need to do the dishes this morning--(he's doing his Science Fair project on anthropometrics and human efficiency)--and I've been waiting them on you. And you have an orthodontist appointment at 9:00, too.
He moans from his loft. Oh my God, it's Monday.
Back into my room, still dark. Check the water temperature, adjust the faucet, walk back to the door. Sweetheart, are you getting up?
Moan. I'm not ready for Monday.
I thought about the dishes, the mountain of laundry in the hall still undone because of the weekend's activities, shop drawings I carried in my bag all weekend meaning to review, millwork design to be completed, proposals and emails to be written, a small gift to be purchased for the Boy's birthday tomorrow, the birthday party on Saturday to clean up and make food for, planning for the Girl's birthday party to be done, the Husband's trip this week, and Brownies and Chess and and and ....
I took a deep breath and said, I don't think anyone's ready for Monday.
Friday, December 04, 2009
Twin Houses
We stood on the opposite side of the street, looking at the twin houses across four speeding lanes of traffic. Little bungalows, with half timbering and long gable roofs with big windowed dormers. Me, with camera in hand, snapping photographs. The Husband, standing 50 feet away in a driveway with his father, who was saying, We moved to Saint Louis because my mother couldn't get along with my grandmother.
Frances was 19 in 1932, the only daughter of a man who worked in the Frisco shops. Her mother died in 1931, her father followed in 1932. Within six months she was married to the only child of the town's most prominent architect, the mother of a baby boy who bore his father's and his grandfather's name.
My grandmother was a devout Catholic, he said later as we walked along a downtown sidewalk, pointing to the church, and always supported the Church.
Frances was nominally Methodist, and convinced her new husband to marry in her church, to join in her religious tradition. And she lived within 20 feet of her mother-in-law, who approved of nothing about this girl, from her attendance at the neighborhood's Methodist church to her habitual card playing, smoking, and drinking.
It couldn't have been easy.
Thursday, December 03, 2009
Faith
I thought my other blog was waiting for the letter F, but alas, that was Football. so here I am.
It's Thursday of the first week of Advent, the craziness of Thankgiving over, the preparations for the Boy's birthday next week in full swing. As noted previously, this time of year that we actually practice religion in more ways than just saying a blessing over our dinner. We read the Bible. We light Advent candles. We get up and go to church on Sundays, from now plus or minus until Easter. My friend Sherrie: Kind of an extended version of going on Christmas and Easter. Strange. Never knew anyone did that.
Never knew anyone did that. Never knew anyone who thought the period of preparation was as important, more important than the event itself?
As the candles glow in the evenings, I'm reminded of this, of the need to clear our hearts and focus our minds to welcome salvation. And so I consider questions of Faith, questions of Belief, alongside the seasonal struggles of gift buying, house cleaning, and dwindling light.
As a young adult, I defined myself by what I was not: I was not a Christian, because I didn't want to be identified with those who use that name to preach hate. I could not subscribe to a religion so flawed as to never truly be practiced. How can true Christians ascribe more to the forbidding God of Leviticus and Revelations than the mercy and love of Christ? How can true Christian preach a gospel of prosperity and selfishness? I still do not understand.
This Advent, perhaps because it's been a difficult Fall, a difficult year, I find myself defining my faith as I did in childhood: by my self, by my beliefs, by my needs, and not by those of others. I am not a Christian seeking to judge and convert the world, to make everyone say Merry Christmas instead of Happy Holidays, to make this life a perfect Heaven on Earth. I am one who finally understands again the need for a Messiah to save me not only from my sins and willful omissions, but from my integral flaws, from the very condition of being human.
And I so read, and pray, and light my candles, and count the days until Christmas.
It's Thursday of the first week of Advent, the craziness of Thankgiving over, the preparations for the Boy's birthday next week in full swing. As noted previously, this time of year that we actually practice religion in more ways than just saying a blessing over our dinner. We read the Bible. We light Advent candles. We get up and go to church on Sundays, from now plus or minus until Easter. My friend Sherrie: Kind of an extended version of going on Christmas and Easter. Strange. Never knew anyone did that.
Never knew anyone did that. Never knew anyone who thought the period of preparation was as important, more important than the event itself?
As the candles glow in the evenings, I'm reminded of this, of the need to clear our hearts and focus our minds to welcome salvation. And so I consider questions of Faith, questions of Belief, alongside the seasonal struggles of gift buying, house cleaning, and dwindling light.
As a young adult, I defined myself by what I was not: I was not a Christian, because I didn't want to be identified with those who use that name to preach hate. I could not subscribe to a religion so flawed as to never truly be practiced. How can true Christians ascribe more to the forbidding God of Leviticus and Revelations than the mercy and love of Christ? How can true Christian preach a gospel of prosperity and selfishness? I still do not understand.
This Advent, perhaps because it's been a difficult Fall, a difficult year, I find myself defining my faith as I did in childhood: by my self, by my beliefs, by my needs, and not by those of others. I am not a Christian seeking to judge and convert the world, to make everyone say Merry Christmas instead of Happy Holidays, to make this life a perfect Heaven on Earth. I am one who finally understands again the need for a Messiah to save me not only from my sins and willful omissions, but from my integral flaws, from the very condition of being human.
And I so read, and pray, and light my candles, and count the days until Christmas.
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