Every once and awhile over the past few months, I have thought, "You haven't written a post in a while. What has happened that is meaningful, exciting, funny, worth sharing?"
Then I think, "Nothing, really."
But I know that's not true. Why the blankness? Why the challenge?
Do you ever feel like that?
I'm stuck there. Will let you know when I crawl out into the sunshine again. Hope you are well.
Saturday, April 23, 2011
Thursday, February 24, 2011
Checklist
From 3:30 pm to 5:00 pm on an average weekday:
Disclaimer: This checklist is only valid for another week and a half, until Hubs' night shift is over, Charmer adds play practice after school once a week, and Engineer adds soccer practice at 5:15 once a week (When am I supposed to cook dinner? When are we supposed to eat it?). Oldest already has gymnastics once a week. You can see why I have a ONE activity limit per child. MAX. But this should be a subject of another blog post!
Next checklist: 5 pm to 8 pm (from Hubs leaving until the kids are all in bed — maybe.)
- Welcome each child home individually (even though they all come in the door in a rush)
- Remind each one to hang up coats and put shoes in the right place (or do it for them, *sigh*)
- Remind each one to wash his or her hands (as often as necessary until done, *sigh*)
- Ask about school
- Listen to more than one story about school at the same time
- Pour my "coping" cup of coffee (about 4 pm) as the first sibling altercation begins ("You interrupted me!")
- Remind them to get snacks
- Remind them to drink ("Stay hydrated!")
- Suggest that they go outside and play (weather cooperating . . . this is healthy for everyone involved)
- Visit briefly with Hubs who is surfing the Net news after a short day's sleep
- Start dinner
- (half the time) Wash the dishes needed to start dinner/eat dinner
- * Inspect/wipe/wash off children who are coming in from outside (if the weather indeed cooperated)
- * Help at least two children with two separate homework assignments in two separate rooms while cooking dinner and trying (maybe) to listen to "All Things Considered" on my pre-children Sony radio
- Kiss Hubs goodbye before he saunters off into the sunset of L&D night shift (in the Big Red Truck)
Disclaimer: This checklist is only valid for another week and a half, until Hubs' night shift is over, Charmer adds play practice after school once a week, and Engineer adds soccer practice at 5:15 once a week (When am I supposed to cook dinner? When are we supposed to eat it?). Oldest already has gymnastics once a week. You can see why I have a ONE activity limit per child. MAX. But this should be a subject of another blog post!
Next checklist: 5 pm to 8 pm (from Hubs leaving until the kids are all in bed — maybe.)
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Make Me Fat
There's been a bit of construction going on in our neighborhood, up the hill on the main drag. At a location I pass several times a week. I finally spotted the modest sign nailed to a post by the road: "DD coming soon." That's right, the famous doughnut establishment.
After dropping Oldest off at gymnastics a few days ago, the boys and I passed that spot. I decided to share my doleful feelings while we whizzed by. "Oh, great. Another make-me-fat restaurant."
They loved that. Engineer guffawed. Charmer took a while, but he was on board with the sarcasm pretty soon after. I continued in a country twang, "Jest what I need, 'nother place ta Make-Me-Fat."
The next day at dinner one of the boys brought Oldest into the joke. Hubs was working so I didn't feel guilty about getting them riled up. Soon we had a whole table full of budding fatso rednecks. Charmer sits next to me, and he and I got into a little exchange.
"I don't need ta go ta that new make-me-fat restaurant," I insisted.
"Oh, yes, I'm gonna take yoo there and make yoo fat," he intoned, wagging his finger.
"Don't need ta go inside, I could jest drive by and look at it and get fat."
(Oldest stopped breathing and fell halfway over.)
"No, no! I'm a-gonna feed ya and feed ya until ya get faaaat."
"Why on earth would ya wanna do that?" I was truly interested.
"Ta fatten ya up so I can EAT YA! num num num num!" He scooped his hands to his mouth like little shovels.
I choked with laughter at this unexpected Hansel and Gretel take-off. We've got a real little actor on our hands.
As for the make-me-fat restaurant, well, at least it will be right across from the YMCA . . .
After dropping Oldest off at gymnastics a few days ago, the boys and I passed that spot. I decided to share my doleful feelings while we whizzed by. "Oh, great. Another make-me-fat restaurant."
They loved that. Engineer guffawed. Charmer took a while, but he was on board with the sarcasm pretty soon after. I continued in a country twang, "Jest what I need, 'nother place ta Make-Me-Fat."
The next day at dinner one of the boys brought Oldest into the joke. Hubs was working so I didn't feel guilty about getting them riled up. Soon we had a whole table full of budding fatso rednecks. Charmer sits next to me, and he and I got into a little exchange.
"I don't need ta go ta that new make-me-fat restaurant," I insisted.
"Oh, yes, I'm gonna take yoo there and make yoo fat," he intoned, wagging his finger.
"Don't need ta go inside, I could jest drive by and look at it and get fat."
(Oldest stopped breathing and fell halfway over.)
"No, no! I'm a-gonna feed ya and feed ya until ya get faaaat."
"Why on earth would ya wanna do that?" I was truly interested.
"Ta fatten ya up so I can EAT YA! num num num num!" He scooped his hands to his mouth like little shovels.
I choked with laughter at this unexpected Hansel and Gretel take-off. We've got a real little actor on our hands.
As for the make-me-fat restaurant, well, at least it will be right across from the YMCA . . .
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
Red Jello
Rows of crystal goblets
at perfect attention,
each cradling translucent ruby
and snow cream stripes,
each covered with saran wrap
and secured with a newsprint-blackened rubber band,
waiting for me on the shelf
in my Grandma's fridge.
Okay, given the choice between high-class language and everyday talk, I need to be true to my background and go for the everyday talk.
A young child's memory of love: Red Jello with Cool Whip. Appropriate colors for Valentine's Day, but just by chance. Or was it . . . ?
My perky grandmother (perky in spirit; she sat down most of the time) would make these magical desserts en masse before my visit. Occasionally she'd be finishing them up as I arrived, deftly stretching the cling wrap across the top. I marvelled at how she could put it on so perfectly that if I held it at an angle, it disappeared. Most times they'd already be in the fridge lined up from back to front, second shelf down usually, at least two columns of them.
They weren't all for me, of course. But as I was the only little one around then, they were mostly for me. She would have one, too; we'd sit down at the big kitchen table and pull off the rubber bands, which we'd later put back in the drawer. (One of the Wonders of that house was the rubber band drawer: I could never fathom how they had collected that many green and red and blue skinny rubber bands.) Then we'd dig in with our spoons, down through the creamy white and into the cool red. The dessert dishes were shaped like goblets, with a stem and everything, and they weren't really crystal. They were better. Thick glass or something like that. Like at an old-fashioned ice-cream shop.
My grandmother knew how to make me feel special. How to make a simple thing magical.
Red jello with Cool Whip . . . nothing to do with my sweetheart. But everything to do with someone who loved me.
at perfect attention,
each cradling translucent ruby
and snow cream stripes,
each covered with saran wrap
and secured with a newsprint-blackened rubber band,
waiting for me on the shelf
in my Grandma's fridge.
Okay, given the choice between high-class language and everyday talk, I need to be true to my background and go for the everyday talk.
A young child's memory of love: Red Jello with Cool Whip. Appropriate colors for Valentine's Day, but just by chance. Or was it . . . ?
My perky grandmother (perky in spirit; she sat down most of the time) would make these magical desserts en masse before my visit. Occasionally she'd be finishing them up as I arrived, deftly stretching the cling wrap across the top. I marvelled at how she could put it on so perfectly that if I held it at an angle, it disappeared. Most times they'd already be in the fridge lined up from back to front, second shelf down usually, at least two columns of them.
They weren't all for me, of course. But as I was the only little one around then, they were mostly for me. She would have one, too; we'd sit down at the big kitchen table and pull off the rubber bands, which we'd later put back in the drawer. (One of the Wonders of that house was the rubber band drawer: I could never fathom how they had collected that many green and red and blue skinny rubber bands.) Then we'd dig in with our spoons, down through the creamy white and into the cool red. The dessert dishes were shaped like goblets, with a stem and everything, and they weren't really crystal. They were better. Thick glass or something like that. Like at an old-fashioned ice-cream shop.
My grandmother knew how to make me feel special. How to make a simple thing magical.
Red jello with Cool Whip . . . nothing to do with my sweetheart. But everything to do with someone who loved me.
Monday, February 14, 2011
Emptiness
A few days ago I was driving alone to take some things to my mother at the state mental hospital; a two hour drive one-way, but the sky was so open and inviting. It was a good time to think.
I reflected on a passage I had recently read, that challenged my perception of the word "emptiness."
Tao Te Ching by Lao Tzu
11.
Thirty spokes converge at the hub,
but emptiness completes the wheel.
Clay is shaped to make a pot,
and what's useful is its emptiness.
Carve fine doors and windows,
but the room is useful in its emptiness.
What is
is beneficial, while what is not
also proves useful.
- translated by Sam Hamill
I looked around at the brilliant blue sky and the open highway; both useful and beautiful in their emptiness. Before reading #11, the word "empty" had a largely negative connotation for me. You know the old litmus test for pessimism: "That glass is half empty." Or when we say someone has an empty head, well, that's not exactly a compliment.
Perhaps what I haven't seen is the possibility within the emptiness. Even its structural necessity, like in Lao Tzu's wheel. Perhaps we take it for granted. Perhaps I think it's not necessary.
Closer to the hospital, I turned my CDs on shuffle mode, and U2's song "Yahweh" began to play. "Take these hands/Teach them what to carry./Take these hands/Don't make a fist/No." The speaker is offering God each part of his body. The hands, I thought - to be useful, they have to be empty. There is value in leaving ample space in one's life for the Important. As a person. As a mother. As a Child.
When I arrived early in the hospital's waiting room, I made a list of things that are useful when empty:
An empty page
Empty hands
Empty time/schedule
Empty chalice
Empty highway
Empty sky
Empty mouth
"Empty" mind - clear, quiet, receptive
If only I could be empty of desire, I thought vaguely, watching the locked portal to the patient wards. Emptied of expectations, of hopes. Then, if she refuses to see me, I will not feel pain. I will be free, above it. Tao Te Ching #16: "Attain emptiness. Attain tranquility."
So much for that. I choked my way back to the car, wiping my eyes. I cannot empty myself of my humanity.
Maybe that is what I need to leave room for.
I reflected on a passage I had recently read, that challenged my perception of the word "emptiness."
Tao Te Ching by Lao Tzu
11.
Thirty spokes converge at the hub,
but emptiness completes the wheel.
Clay is shaped to make a pot,
and what's useful is its emptiness.
Carve fine doors and windows,
but the room is useful in its emptiness.
What is
is beneficial, while what is not
also proves useful.
- translated by Sam Hamill
I looked around at the brilliant blue sky and the open highway; both useful and beautiful in their emptiness. Before reading #11, the word "empty" had a largely negative connotation for me. You know the old litmus test for pessimism: "That glass is half empty." Or when we say someone has an empty head, well, that's not exactly a compliment.
Perhaps what I haven't seen is the possibility within the emptiness. Even its structural necessity, like in Lao Tzu's wheel. Perhaps we take it for granted. Perhaps I think it's not necessary.
Closer to the hospital, I turned my CDs on shuffle mode, and U2's song "Yahweh" began to play. "Take these hands/Teach them what to carry./Take these hands/Don't make a fist/No." The speaker is offering God each part of his body. The hands, I thought - to be useful, they have to be empty. There is value in leaving ample space in one's life for the Important. As a person. As a mother. As a Child.
When I arrived early in the hospital's waiting room, I made a list of things that are useful when empty:
An empty page
Empty hands
Empty time/schedule
Empty chalice
Empty highway
Empty sky
Empty mouth
"Empty" mind - clear, quiet, receptive
If only I could be empty of desire, I thought vaguely, watching the locked portal to the patient wards. Emptied of expectations, of hopes. Then, if she refuses to see me, I will not feel pain. I will be free, above it. Tao Te Ching #16: "Attain emptiness. Attain tranquility."
So much for that. I choked my way back to the car, wiping my eyes. I cannot empty myself of my humanity.
Maybe that is what I need to leave room for.
Saturday, February 12, 2011
Spelling Queen
Cue the music: ABBA's pop classic "Dancing Queen." I can hear the song in my head; if you need a refresher, click play below. I couldn't find a pure audio clip, so feel free to just listen as you continue to read.
Talk about shining under pressure: I have to tell you about my daughter at the school spelling bee. It's one thing to watch your favorite sports star keep his cool in a stressful championship moment; it's quite another to watch your firstborn child stand in front of hundreds of spectators, battling alone before a microphone and a panel of judges.
Scene One: Oldest's Bedroom, the night before. I stop in to tell her goodnight, as usual, after tucking her two younger brothers into their respective bunks next door.
"I really don't know about this spelling bee tomorrow."
"Oh?"
"But my class is counting on me to represent them. So I know I have to do it. But otherwise I don't really want to anymore."
A pause while I recall my own visceral memories from elementary school spelling bees: the churning stomach, the blank mind, the breath-stopping elation, the abject dejection.
"Spelling bees are not just about spelling well," I begin slowly, carefully. "They are half about stage fright. If you can manage your nerves, you will do better than most."
We chat about breathing techniques, speaking slowly, and how silence on stage seems much longer than it really is. She seems to hear me. She is quiet and smiles. I pat her hair. I hope I've helped. Did I say too much? I say goodnight.
Scene Two: Four hundred eight-to-eleven year-olds seated on the floor of a gymnasium, one long row of parents and family in folding chairs at the back, fifteen somber students seated in a wide arc on a stage with two standing microphones, and three officiating adults at a central table in front of the stage.
Her first time up at the mic, Oldest spots me in the family row with one of her brothers on my lap and the other sitting at my feet; I lift my fist in a strong "I love you" sign. We are here for her. She smiles.
My prediction proves true for many of the students; they rush through, skipping letters, clearly flummoxed by the enormity of the situation. Others, more clear-headed, eventually confront a word beyond their purview. After a half-dozen rounds, only three are left: Persistent, who hammers at the words as if they are from a foreign language; Machine, who emits letters in an uncanny precision that bespeaks hours of memorization; and Oldest.
Ah, you should see her.
She is comfortable in her skin. She stands poised before the judges. Her thoughtful pronunciation of each word, before she begins to list its components, communicates her understanding of its meaning. Her voice is clear and matter-of-fact. This battle is between her and the word, nothing more.
Once, when the speaking judge clearly mispronounces Oldest's next word (repeatedly putting a "d" sound on the end of "thespian"), I almost jump out of my chair with outrage. But Oldest pronounces the noun correctly and proceeds to spell it. With no "d". Unbelievable.
After several more rounds, Persistent meets her match with a particularly obstinate word. Now it is down to Machine and Oldest. Memorization versus Understanding. Hundreds of students, who have been amazingly quiet, begin to rustle, like wind through leaves. How much longer?
The boys and I use our Montessori-learned sign language for applause several times, cheering Oldest on after each success with silent upraised waving hands, snowflakes fluttering silently.
By the time a simple mistake hands Machine the championship word, Oldest has clearly demonstrated that regardless of runner-up status, she is the Spelling Queen.
I am so proud of her, for never wavering, no matter the outcome. For saying "Great job!" to Machine, and "Good luck at District!" I am thankful, that in her first year at a new school, fifth grade, the terminal year, in a new city in a new state, she is at home in herself.
As for Oldest, she is thankful that she does not have to study for the District Spelling Bee. There are many other things she'd rather do. Cue the music, but change "Dancing" to "Spelling." You shine, girl. You shine.
|
Talk about shining under pressure: I have to tell you about my daughter at the school spelling bee. It's one thing to watch your favorite sports star keep his cool in a stressful championship moment; it's quite another to watch your firstborn child stand in front of hundreds of spectators, battling alone before a microphone and a panel of judges.
Scene One: Oldest's Bedroom, the night before. I stop in to tell her goodnight, as usual, after tucking her two younger brothers into their respective bunks next door.
"I really don't know about this spelling bee tomorrow."
"Oh?"
"But my class is counting on me to represent them. So I know I have to do it. But otherwise I don't really want to anymore."
A pause while I recall my own visceral memories from elementary school spelling bees: the churning stomach, the blank mind, the breath-stopping elation, the abject dejection.
"Spelling bees are not just about spelling well," I begin slowly, carefully. "They are half about stage fright. If you can manage your nerves, you will do better than most."
We chat about breathing techniques, speaking slowly, and how silence on stage seems much longer than it really is. She seems to hear me. She is quiet and smiles. I pat her hair. I hope I've helped. Did I say too much? I say goodnight.
Scene Two: Four hundred eight-to-eleven year-olds seated on the floor of a gymnasium, one long row of parents and family in folding chairs at the back, fifteen somber students seated in a wide arc on a stage with two standing microphones, and three officiating adults at a central table in front of the stage.
Her first time up at the mic, Oldest spots me in the family row with one of her brothers on my lap and the other sitting at my feet; I lift my fist in a strong "I love you" sign. We are here for her. She smiles.
My prediction proves true for many of the students; they rush through, skipping letters, clearly flummoxed by the enormity of the situation. Others, more clear-headed, eventually confront a word beyond their purview. After a half-dozen rounds, only three are left: Persistent, who hammers at the words as if they are from a foreign language; Machine, who emits letters in an uncanny precision that bespeaks hours of memorization; and Oldest.
Ah, you should see her.
She is comfortable in her skin. She stands poised before the judges. Her thoughtful pronunciation of each word, before she begins to list its components, communicates her understanding of its meaning. Her voice is clear and matter-of-fact. This battle is between her and the word, nothing more.
Once, when the speaking judge clearly mispronounces Oldest's next word (repeatedly putting a "d" sound on the end of "thespian"), I almost jump out of my chair with outrage. But Oldest pronounces the noun correctly and proceeds to spell it. With no "d". Unbelievable.
After several more rounds, Persistent meets her match with a particularly obstinate word. Now it is down to Machine and Oldest. Memorization versus Understanding. Hundreds of students, who have been amazingly quiet, begin to rustle, like wind through leaves. How much longer?
The boys and I use our Montessori-learned sign language for applause several times, cheering Oldest on after each success with silent upraised waving hands, snowflakes fluttering silently.
By the time a simple mistake hands Machine the championship word, Oldest has clearly demonstrated that regardless of runner-up status, she is the Spelling Queen.
I am so proud of her, for never wavering, no matter the outcome. For saying "Great job!" to Machine, and "Good luck at District!" I am thankful, that in her first year at a new school, fifth grade, the terminal year, in a new city in a new state, she is at home in herself.
As for Oldest, she is thankful that she does not have to study for the District Spelling Bee. There are many other things she'd rather do. Cue the music, but change "Dancing" to "Spelling." You shine, girl. You shine.
Friday, February 11, 2011
Mrs. Kong
Normal school-day wake-up protocol in the boys' room this morning. I say "Good morning, boys, time to wake up." Then I sit at our reading spot, cushions and a blanket in the corner, and watch as Engineer nimbly climbs down the ladder to cuddle. He's always first. After a minute, Charmer (who is usually still comatose) perkily pipes up, "Hey, get up, M. It's my turn." So I give Engineer a squeeze (how did he get so big?), send him off to his morning ablutions, and make way for the tiny dude padding toward me.
Charmer, snuggled in my lap, points to the end of the bunks and proclaims the newest revelation: "Look! It's Mrs. King Kong."
You have to see this.
Yes, that's a clock tower; and not just any tower. A Cinderella Barbie castle tower. And no, I did not buy it for Charmer - he inherited it from neighbors. Yes, that's his purple monkey. It's a she. You get the idea.
Well, I immediately start laughing: the open, sparkling kind, like the cork just popped out of a bottle of champagne I didn't know I had. Does 6-year-old Charmer know about King Kong? As if reading my mind, Charmer adds in a tone of approval and appreciation, "M did that."
Ah, that explains it. And makes it even funnier. M, whom we are calling Engineer, scurries back in to bask in the laughter. I squeeze them both.
I am pleased, not only for this witty humor, but also for this precious evidence of tolerance between my oh-so-different offspring. You see, Engineer has Classic taste in toys: Legos, plastic army men, marbles and such. Charmer, on the other hand, is not limited to such dated notions. Without knowing it, he is PC, with his bin of Barbies, the gaudy castle, and a bin of pastel-colored pop beads that make wonderful jewelry for Miss Monkey, now also-known-as Mrs. Kong. These two individuals are forced to share toy bin shelves and floor space in their fairly small room, and Engineer has pleaded with me in a pained voice on the occasions when half-clothed plastic ladies have been left strewn across the floor. (I don't make him touch them, heaven forbid. Even I know that there are limits to tolerance.)
They get along fine, these boys of mine. Definitely a reason to feel Radiant today!
Charmer, snuggled in my lap, points to the end of the bunks and proclaims the newest revelation: "Look! It's Mrs. King Kong."
You have to see this.
Yes, that's a clock tower; and not just any tower. A Cinderella Barbie castle tower. And no, I did not buy it for Charmer - he inherited it from neighbors. Yes, that's his purple monkey. It's a she. You get the idea.
Well, I immediately start laughing: the open, sparkling kind, like the cork just popped out of a bottle of champagne I didn't know I had. Does 6-year-old Charmer know about King Kong? As if reading my mind, Charmer adds in a tone of approval and appreciation, "M did that."
Ah, that explains it. And makes it even funnier. M, whom we are calling Engineer, scurries back in to bask in the laughter. I squeeze them both.
I am pleased, not only for this witty humor, but also for this precious evidence of tolerance between my oh-so-different offspring. You see, Engineer has Classic taste in toys: Legos, plastic army men, marbles and such. Charmer, on the other hand, is not limited to such dated notions. Without knowing it, he is PC, with his bin of Barbies, the gaudy castle, and a bin of pastel-colored pop beads that make wonderful jewelry for Miss Monkey, now also-known-as Mrs. Kong. These two individuals are forced to share toy bin shelves and floor space in their fairly small room, and Engineer has pleaded with me in a pained voice on the occasions when half-clothed plastic ladies have been left strewn across the floor. (I don't make him touch them, heaven forbid. Even I know that there are limits to tolerance.)
They get along fine, these boys of mine. Definitely a reason to feel Radiant today!
Thursday, February 10, 2011
Science Projects
I love science projects. I have fond memories of my first one, done with Best Friend before she was Best Friend. Can you eat and drink upside down? We took turns doing shaky headstands against the wall and getting fed. Boy, that kind of thing builds trust when you're ten years old! She was such a good sport.
And then there was the time in Junior High, that awkward and exciting era, when I won the top award in the Botany division at the District judging and got my picture in the paper. I still remember the brown package with lodgepole pinecones that a nice forest ranger shipped to me all the way from Colorado. I put those things under a heat lamp to find out what temperature would cause the resin to melt so they would pop open. Some trees need forest fires!
The next year I picked a way-too-ambitious project based on my concern about how car exhaust adversely affects roadside plants. After a trip to the local university's chemistry library to find an equation that would help me find out how much oxygen a plant uses based on the amount of time a flame burns (or some such convoluted notion), I realized I was sunk. And learned that choosing the right question, and a skill-level appropriate method to test it, is all-important.
This year, my kids are at a school that pushes science projects. They had never done any before. Oldest had to do one for her science grade; Engineer decided to do one because he'd heard there was prize money at the district level, and hey, we had already built a catapult over the summer, and oh, yeah, sister and I told him it was good practice.
I loved walking them through the scientific method, and asking them questions to help them along. When they were done with the experiment, I loved buying the boards and the art supplies with Oldest. I loved the Saturdays and snow days when the kids pored over their boards, and I stayed close for when they needed my help. I shared their hopeful anticipation as we put the completed boards in the trunk, drove them to school, took them out and walked in together to set them up.
So when the school's judging day came, I was super-excited. And surprised at myself for being so excited. These aren't your projects, I told myself. But I had this gut feeling that Engineer had picked just the right question for his age. And the right method for testing it. He even hand-wrote the entire project, save the title.
He is so proud of his big frilly blue ribbon. It's his first ribbon ever, he says. He is excited about District judging in a few weeks. (I think he sees dollar signs.)
I am so proud that I didn't do his project for him. (I will be typing up the project, though - our school officials said it should be typed to have a chance at District. Don't worry, they told me that parents have permission to type. I wasn't sure before.)
Typing or no typing, I smile at his success. And whatever I did right so he could get there.
And then there was the time in Junior High, that awkward and exciting era, when I won the top award in the Botany division at the District judging and got my picture in the paper. I still remember the brown package with lodgepole pinecones that a nice forest ranger shipped to me all the way from Colorado. I put those things under a heat lamp to find out what temperature would cause the resin to melt so they would pop open. Some trees need forest fires!
The next year I picked a way-too-ambitious project based on my concern about how car exhaust adversely affects roadside plants. After a trip to the local university's chemistry library to find an equation that would help me find out how much oxygen a plant uses based on the amount of time a flame burns (or some such convoluted notion), I realized I was sunk. And learned that choosing the right question, and a skill-level appropriate method to test it, is all-important.
This year, my kids are at a school that pushes science projects. They had never done any before. Oldest had to do one for her science grade; Engineer decided to do one because he'd heard there was prize money at the district level, and hey, we had already built a catapult over the summer, and oh, yeah, sister and I told him it was good practice.
I loved walking them through the scientific method, and asking them questions to help them along. When they were done with the experiment, I loved buying the boards and the art supplies with Oldest. I loved the Saturdays and snow days when the kids pored over their boards, and I stayed close for when they needed my help. I shared their hopeful anticipation as we put the completed boards in the trunk, drove them to school, took them out and walked in together to set them up.
So when the school's judging day came, I was super-excited. And surprised at myself for being so excited. These aren't your projects, I told myself. But I had this gut feeling that Engineer had picked just the right question for his age. And the right method for testing it. He even hand-wrote the entire project, save the title.
He is so proud of his big frilly blue ribbon. It's his first ribbon ever, he says. He is excited about District judging in a few weeks. (I think he sees dollar signs.)
I am so proud that I didn't do his project for him. (I will be typing up the project, though - our school officials said it should be typed to have a chance at District. Don't worry, they told me that parents have permission to type. I wasn't sure before.)
Typing or no typing, I smile at his success. And whatever I did right so he could get there.
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Underwear!
I was reading to my boys tonight out in the hall before bed. The amazing Ms. Frizzle was telling her students to put on their specially designed underwater somethings, but my eyes saw "underwear." I caught myself in time and read it correctly, but I couldn't resist relating the revelation. I knew what kind of reaction it might get.
"You know, when my eyes saw that word," (I pointed at it), "I thought it said underwear instead of underwater. 'Ok, class,' " I continued in my pretty-good shrill Frizz imitation, " 'look under your seats for your specially designed underwear!' "
Charmer started rolling around before I was even done - his face becoming red like his fuzzy pajamas, laughing so hard he made no sound for several seconds. I grinned at my older son, we'll call him Engineer, who giggled, half at the word and half at his brother.
We had to repeat that one several times.
It must be something about the age. You see, this joke started a few years ago when Engineer was the age that Charmer is now, maybe younger. We were staying at a hotel that had cable television channels, and boy, let me tell you - - that was a major attraction for our kids, who only got PBS through the antenna at home. (Hubs was in Med School, for goodness sakes.) Well, this kids show called "Bunnytown" came on, and it was actually pretty funny. If you can appreciate four to six year-old humor, anyway. A tiny bunny muppet kept popping up all during the show, interrupting other bunnies, and all he would say was, "Underwear! Underwear!" Oh, my. I think all three of my kids almost peed in their pants they laughed so hard. Well, maybe not Oldest (who occasionally reads my blog and might be offended at the mention of bodily functions). But she still thought it was funny.
This good joke lives on in our household - resurrected mostly by our youngest, now. Like I said, it's the age.
Go ahead, smile. Say it loud and proud. "Underwear!!!"
"You know, when my eyes saw that word," (I pointed at it), "I thought it said underwear instead of underwater. 'Ok, class,' " I continued in my pretty-good shrill Frizz imitation, " 'look under your seats for your specially designed underwear!' "
Charmer started rolling around before I was even done - his face becoming red like his fuzzy pajamas, laughing so hard he made no sound for several seconds. I grinned at my older son, we'll call him Engineer, who giggled, half at the word and half at his brother.
We had to repeat that one several times.
It must be something about the age. You see, this joke started a few years ago when Engineer was the age that Charmer is now, maybe younger. We were staying at a hotel that had cable television channels, and boy, let me tell you - - that was a major attraction for our kids, who only got PBS through the antenna at home. (Hubs was in Med School, for goodness sakes.) Well, this kids show called "Bunnytown" came on, and it was actually pretty funny. If you can appreciate four to six year-old humor, anyway. A tiny bunny muppet kept popping up all during the show, interrupting other bunnies, and all he would say was, "Underwear! Underwear!" Oh, my. I think all three of my kids almost peed in their pants they laughed so hard. Well, maybe not Oldest (who occasionally reads my blog and might be offended at the mention of bodily functions). But she still thought it was funny.
This good joke lives on in our household - resurrected mostly by our youngest, now. Like I said, it's the age.
Go ahead, smile. Say it loud and proud. "Underwear!!!"
Saturday, January 15, 2011
Big Red Truck #2
The second big red truck in my life came about twenty years later. My husband, who had been walking across the road to medical school classes for two years, needed a vehicle to get across town for his clinical rotations. One of our criteria was six seats, if possible; our current Taurus sat only five, and that meant we couldn't include my mother on family outings. Hubs traveled two hours to visit the used lot where we bought the Taurus, near where we lived before. We trusted the owner, had known him before we even knew he sold cars.
He came back with a 1996 red Toyota T-100. Incredible. The kids were ecstatic. Dad was pretty happy, too. I was pleased with the six seats of course, but was skeptical of its age. Wasn't a '96 pretty old? "It's a Toyota," handsome Hubs said, confidently. "It will outlast the Taurus." Also, initially, I couldn't get over its size. After all, what were we playing at — what med student needs a farm truck for a 10 minute commute?
A med student who is also a husband and a son-in-law and a father of three active children, it turns out. And what we've been playing at is fun, when Hubs has us out for a ride, and the back is full of fishing poles, or bicycles, or our first real Christmas tree, or new (to us!) furniture. Even parked, the truck has been fun year-round: a snow-pit for the kids during their first big snow, a safe place to lie back and watch summer fireworks, a receptacle for Hubs' "science projects" (decomposing apple cores and banana peels), and a cool spot for the kids to gather with neighborhood friends.
Compared to my grandfather's shiny beauty, this truck could use some attention. Don't get me wrong - the body is in good condition, but the paint job has lost its luster and gained a well-loved rubbed look. I suspect that Hubs, in his secret self, likes driving around this symbol of American manhood. As an African missionary kid, I know he likes its practicality. But it can't hurt to feel like he fits in. For me, when I've driven it around town for whatever reason (which isn't often), I've garnered approving looks from truck-driving men. I have to admit that I enjoy wearing the tough-country-farm-chick persona for just a few minutes.
Big red truck #2 has driven the miles to a new state and a medical residency, and is sitting outside our townhouse. The engine roars at 5 am when Hubs leaves for rounds, and although I know he's waking the neighbors, the sound comforts me. The truck is working to carry him through another day, until he can be back home with us.
He came back with a 1996 red Toyota T-100. Incredible. The kids were ecstatic. Dad was pretty happy, too. I was pleased with the six seats of course, but was skeptical of its age. Wasn't a '96 pretty old? "It's a Toyota," handsome Hubs said, confidently. "It will outlast the Taurus." Also, initially, I couldn't get over its size. After all, what were we playing at — what med student needs a farm truck for a 10 minute commute?
A med student who is also a husband and a son-in-law and a father of three active children, it turns out. And what we've been playing at is fun, when Hubs has us out for a ride, and the back is full of fishing poles, or bicycles, or our first real Christmas tree, or new (to us!) furniture. Even parked, the truck has been fun year-round: a snow-pit for the kids during their first big snow, a safe place to lie back and watch summer fireworks, a receptacle for Hubs' "science projects" (decomposing apple cores and banana peels), and a cool spot for the kids to gather with neighborhood friends.
Compared to my grandfather's shiny beauty, this truck could use some attention. Don't get me wrong - the body is in good condition, but the paint job has lost its luster and gained a well-loved rubbed look. I suspect that Hubs, in his secret self, likes driving around this symbol of American manhood. As an African missionary kid, I know he likes its practicality. But it can't hurt to feel like he fits in. For me, when I've driven it around town for whatever reason (which isn't often), I've garnered approving looks from truck-driving men. I have to admit that I enjoy wearing the tough-country-farm-chick persona for just a few minutes.
Big red truck #2 has driven the miles to a new state and a medical residency, and is sitting outside our townhouse. The engine roars at 5 am when Hubs leaves for rounds, and although I know he's waking the neighbors, the sound comforts me. The truck is working to carry him through another day, until he can be back home with us.
Friday, January 14, 2011
Big Red Truck #1
Happiness is . . . a big red truck.
I have had meaningful relationships with two pickup trucks in my life - and they have both been red. This must mean something . . . Oh, and it's probably significant that they each belong to one of the most important men in my life.
The first one I will describe with a poem inspired by William Carlos Williams' "Red Wheelbarrow":
Red Pickup Truck
so many smiles
began
with the red
pickup truck
glazed with white
sunshine
beside my grand
father.
My grandfather loved that truck. It was a brand-new Scottsdale, the pride of his retirement. He must have washed and waxed it regularly, because it shone spotless every time I saw it. I can still see him leaning his tall frame against it, horn-rimmed glasses above an amused half-smile, soft flannel shirt, and a leather belt with a large gold rectangular buckle securing gently worn blue jeans.
He would open the passenger door and lift me up with both hands. The tan cloth seat was always clean and ready for me to ride. Just me and Grandpa, off to pick up dinner during one of my visits to see him and Grandma. We didn't have to talk, either one of us. It was enough to share the smooth ride, way up there above the road, and the important task of bringing back something good. Sometimes it was McDonalds, where we'd always pick up the featured Peanuts tumbler or B.C. cereal bowl; our other favorite was Kentucky Fried Chicken, always Original because that's all they had then. We were always successful. We were always friends.
Thursday, January 13, 2011
Lord Have Mercy
I can hear the chant echo in the cloisters of my brain:
Kyrie, eleison. Kyrie, eleison
Christe, eleison. Christe, eleison.
Kyrie, eleison. Kyrie, eleison.
I know I'm supposed to be talking about light, but if I don't describe the darkness, you won't know what the light means to me.
My mother's mental illness has come to a crisis point, again. Each time more damage is done. Over twenty years of voices, medications, side effects, losses, and relocations is taking its toll. The beast in her brain has transfigured itself, escaping the rusting chains of once-effective medications. She is refusing to take the new ones that could help. She is refusing to sign paperwork that would allow people to help her. That would allow her to have a place to live where she would be cared for.
She is beginning to let the beast take over; I'm afraid it will destroy her. She thinks I am out to get her; I'm afraid she will shut me out.
I assigned a harsh ringer to her number on my cell phone. This way, if I am with my children, I know not to answer the phone.
I have learned through painful experience how my mother's phone calls can affect me.
For the past several days, I have been feeling blank, shocked about the nightmare that she is in. Too shocked to sit down and pray, even. I should take the time to be in the Lord's presence, but I'm too agitated. Day to day, her story changes. I whirl between cautious optimism to bewilderment to despair to guilt to anger to depression to fear to pain to helplessness.
My soul cries out. The Spirit resurrects a rich memory from the masses of my early childhood.
Lamb of God, you take away the sins of the world. Have mercy on us.
Lamb of God, you take away the sins of the world. Have mercy on us.
Lamb of God, you take away the sins of the world. Grant us peace.
This is all I know to say. This is all I have the strength for. Light of the World, help me. Help her.
Help us all.
Kyrie, eleison. Kyrie, eleison
Christe, eleison. Christe, eleison.
Kyrie, eleison. Kyrie, eleison.
I know I'm supposed to be talking about light, but if I don't describe the darkness, you won't know what the light means to me.
My mother's mental illness has come to a crisis point, again. Each time more damage is done. Over twenty years of voices, medications, side effects, losses, and relocations is taking its toll. The beast in her brain has transfigured itself, escaping the rusting chains of once-effective medications. She is refusing to take the new ones that could help. She is refusing to sign paperwork that would allow people to help her. That would allow her to have a place to live where she would be cared for.
She is beginning to let the beast take over; I'm afraid it will destroy her. She thinks I am out to get her; I'm afraid she will shut me out.
I assigned a harsh ringer to her number on my cell phone. This way, if I am with my children, I know not to answer the phone.
I have learned through painful experience how my mother's phone calls can affect me.
For the past several days, I have been feeling blank, shocked about the nightmare that she is in. Too shocked to sit down and pray, even. I should take the time to be in the Lord's presence, but I'm too agitated. Day to day, her story changes. I whirl between cautious optimism to bewilderment to despair to guilt to anger to depression to fear to pain to helplessness.
My soul cries out. The Spirit resurrects a rich memory from the masses of my early childhood.
Lamb of God, you take away the sins of the world. Have mercy on us.
Lamb of God, you take away the sins of the world. Have mercy on us.
Lamb of God, you take away the sins of the world. Grant us peace.
This is all I know to say. This is all I have the strength for. Light of the World, help me. Help her.
Help us all.
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
My Toes Have Brains
My children are a continual source of brightness in my life. Busyness, yes; concern, yes; but mostly brightness.
My youngest is five going on six, but most strangers guess that he is four. This doesn't phase him at all, because he consistently and cheerfully charms the socks off adults, especially ladies. For example, just a few weeks ago we were at a physician's departmental holiday drop-in, our first such appearance as a new resident family. Feeling awkward, I sad down with him on a red leather sofa, monitoring his water bottle. Within seconds, he was grinning coyishly at an obviously captivated middle-aged lady on the opposite couch. "Better watch out," I quipped jokingly to her bemused companion. So, let's call him Charmer.
Well, Charmer is a cheerful guy, like I said. His normal volume is loud. I think he'd be great in theater or opera someday. Anyway, one day he was sitting next to me at the Dining Room Table Theater, legs happily bouncing, humming a little tune. Even his toes were moving this way and that. He articulated, "My toes have their own brains."
"What, honey?"
"My toes have little brains in them. They are just moving and moving and telling themselves to move; I'm not doing it!"
We both looked under the table, smiling at his super-active toes.
"Wow, honey, they certainly look like it!"
I'm still smiling. Charmer had brains in his toes for days.
My youngest is five going on six, but most strangers guess that he is four. This doesn't phase him at all, because he consistently and cheerfully charms the socks off adults, especially ladies. For example, just a few weeks ago we were at a physician's departmental holiday drop-in, our first such appearance as a new resident family. Feeling awkward, I sad down with him on a red leather sofa, monitoring his water bottle. Within seconds, he was grinning coyishly at an obviously captivated middle-aged lady on the opposite couch. "Better watch out," I quipped jokingly to her bemused companion. So, let's call him Charmer.
Well, Charmer is a cheerful guy, like I said. His normal volume is loud. I think he'd be great in theater or opera someday. Anyway, one day he was sitting next to me at the Dining Room Table Theater, legs happily bouncing, humming a little tune. Even his toes were moving this way and that. He articulated, "My toes have their own brains."
"What, honey?"
"My toes have little brains in them. They are just moving and moving and telling themselves to move; I'm not doing it!"
We both looked under the table, smiling at his super-active toes.
"Wow, honey, they certainly look like it!"
I'm still smiling. Charmer had brains in his toes for days.
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
The Daisy
The daisy is my favorite flower. Several years ago was my last visit to my hometown. I bought a bunch of daisies at the local flower shop from a man who happened to go to high school with my father. He didn't know that my dad had died. After I told him what the flowers were for, he told me a story about going with my dad to see the Marine recruiter, and how the recruiter wouldn't talk to my dad until he had hung by his fingers from the doorjamb for three minutes. Then, flummoxed, he gave me extra daisies at no charge.
I finally found the flat bronze headstone in the Veterans section of the cemetery; it was the first time I had taken my children there. It started to rain. My husband saw there was no vase for the flowers and, silently, used the pointed end of the black umbrella to poke a hole in the sacred earth. He took the younger ones away; oldest, then still tiny herself, insisted on staying. She cried because I was crying. Her little hand was a comfort to me. The rain mixed with my tears as I introduced my father to his grandchildren. The daisies were bright against the grass. I was happy that I could leave them there.
Only very recently did I read that the word "daisy" comes from the Old English doeges eage - "day's eye." What a beautiful metaphor for a flower that resembles the sun, and like the sun unfolds from the earth in rebirth every morning. That day years ago, I think I felt this meaning in my heart. You see, my father's special song to me as a child was "You Are My Sunshine" - we would sing it back and forth to each other as a game. Skies must have gotten too gray for him when I was nine years old and he took his life. That day in the rain, I gave him a bouquet of sunshine amid tears of love. I hope it was enough.
I finally found the flat bronze headstone in the Veterans section of the cemetery; it was the first time I had taken my children there. It started to rain. My husband saw there was no vase for the flowers and, silently, used the pointed end of the black umbrella to poke a hole in the sacred earth. He took the younger ones away; oldest, then still tiny herself, insisted on staying. She cried because I was crying. Her little hand was a comfort to me. The rain mixed with my tears as I introduced my father to his grandchildren. The daisies were bright against the grass. I was happy that I could leave them there.
Only very recently did I read that the word "daisy" comes from the Old English doeges eage - "day's eye." What a beautiful metaphor for a flower that resembles the sun, and like the sun unfolds from the earth in rebirth every morning. That day years ago, I think I felt this meaning in my heart. You see, my father's special song to me as a child was "You Are My Sunshine" - we would sing it back and forth to each other as a game. Skies must have gotten too gray for him when I was nine years old and he took his life. That day in the rain, I gave him a bouquet of sunshine amid tears of love. I hope it was enough.
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