The Delicacy of Sharing
Teaching our daughter to share has been a constant challenge, as I'm sure it has with most parents. L likes and even expects others to share with her, but getting her to return the favor -- that's always been a trick. A few events of the last few days, though, makes me think we've made real progress.
Friday, we were to meet a friend of hers from her first grade class at the end-of-the-year school party, a carnival with a few rides and some games scattered about the school ground.
"We're supposed to meet at six at the silly string!" she told us, countless times.
We arrived at the silly string area -- a roped off portion of the field where kids ran about spraying aerosol string on each other -- at the appointed time, but no friend. We got a ice treat, went on a few rides, and then suddenly discovered L's friend, also Lilly.
With her mother's blessing, Lilly went off with L and me, but before long, she'd run out of tickets.
"Daddy," L said with a grave expression. "Give me the rest of the tickets. I want to slip them with Lilly."
The second episode: today, during L's preparation time before ballet portraits, I sat with E at the table to do his albuterol breathing treatment, but he was having none of that.
"No! No! No!"
No amount of cajoling, explaining, or begging could help.
L came to the rescue, offering the Boy use of our family Nexus so he could play his favorite game, a vehicle-based shape-matching game.
He sat patiently for the treatment, playing his game and clapping furiously whenever he finished a round.
"Bravo!" he cried, as did I, though for both L and E.
Finally, in the evening, mowing the yard after almost two weeks' neglect, I came upon a patch of matted grass, so I headed in for the dethatching rake. As I returned, I noticed a curious patch of dry grass with bits of gray about it. I walked over, pulled the grass aside, and found a burrow of baby rabbits.
L came over to get a peek, and Papa brought the Boy over.
"What an odd place to burrow," I said. Indeed, for it will be a disaster if our cat finds it, which is not as likely as it might seem given her age and general laziness.
Still, I'm happy to share our yard -- for once, it's an animal that seems harmless.
I Rote A Poem
Sick at Home, Tired at Rehearsal
The Boy, in one form or another, stays sick lately. Or so it seems. Today was my turn to watch him, to take him to the doctor, to help him with his newly-prescribed breathing treatment. We started the morning playing with cars on the sofa. It ended quickly.
That was the morning. Afternoon and evening were spent in an auditorium as the Girl prepared for her two (count them: two) dance recitals coming up, jazz and ballet. I took my little laptop along with the intention of returning to a recent writing idea that seems promising but got off to a wrong-footed start that I only really realized how wrong-footed 25,000 words into it. While writing, though, two random thoughts:
Random Thought One
The girls running across the stage, somewhat stumbling occasionally, reveal the irony of grace: in learning to be graceful, we're often anything but. We watch a professional company's performance of the Nutcracker, and the dancers seem positively to float across the stage. The lifts look more like the man his keeping the ballerina from soaring of into space rather than supporting her. These little girls look more like kids in the playground playing cowboys and Indians, galloping about like mad, than like ballerinas–when judged against that standard of near-perfection that professionals seem to achieve. But grace and elegance comes in many forms and is in itself somewhat relative. After seeing how spastic L can be, in the completely natural, seven-year-old way, it's an act of supreme grace just for her to tiptoe onto the stage, hands on her hips, and slide gently into first position.
Random Thought Two
I once made the analogy with a professor that for me, faith was like watching people dance from a sound-proof chamber. “I see the unity, the ritual, the sequence, but not hearing the music myself, I only suspect what is choreographing it all.” Dr. R said that was a very positive view, and perhaps he thought then what it took me almost twenty years to figure out for myself: my professed atheism might give way to something more musical.
During the last few months, I've experienced the opposite: while sitting in the Greenville Ballet and Jazz waiting room as L took her weekly lesson on Monday afternoons, I heard the same song over and over. A few moments here, then stop; a few more snippets of the song, then silence again. Muffed voices as the instructor presumably corrected this or that dancer, perhaps the group as a whole. I had no idea what the whole might look like. While waiting for L's group's performance, it finally all came together: an older group of girls, probably just a bit older than my students.
Back home, I check on the song, apparently a band called Capital Cities:
The Girl got a little snack while the Boy got a final breathing treatment.
Busy, random, odd day.
Second Time Around
The Boy got cards, got ice cream -- birthday boy.
Home
The Boy was not himself today. Slight fever, runny nose, rough cough, so we took him to Nana's and Papa's for the day. When I stopped by in the afternoon to pick him up, he jumped out of Nana's lap, squeaked, "Bye Nana!" as he waved, turned to me, and said with obvious relief in his voice, "Home." That's not to say he doesn't love being at Papa's and Nana's -- he certainly does. But Nana's and Papa's is Nana's and Papa's, and home is home.
He says the same thing when I pick him up from daycare every day. He's won the teachers' heart, with one writing in a thank you note (for cupcakes last week for the teachers -- what a mama!), "He really makes my day with his sweet hugs and sometimes unexpected kisses." Miss J seems to adore him, and he certainly is just a little crazy about her. Still, he sees me coming and says with obvious relief in his voice, "Home."
What could "home" mean for a two-year-old? We like to attach all these grandiose meanings to such a simple concept. A quick snapshot is all the explanation anyone really needs to such a question.
Monday Afternoon
We take the Girl to jazz dance and return to play with the Boy's new toys.
Mother’s Day 2014 and Happy Happy!
"Today is a triple header," Father Boyle said today at Mass. "Mother's Day, Good Shepherd Sunday, and First Communion." He left out one thing: E's Happy Birthday.
First, food.
Grilled onions, hamburgers, hot dogs, grilled corn, Greek spinach salad, Black Forest cake, and fresh fruit.
With a beginning like that, what could go wrong? Sure, not everyone's crazy about hot dogs. Sure, the idea of grilled corn Indian style (i.e., smeared with lemon dipped in Cayenne pepper) sets some people on fire. Sure, not everyone likes strawberries. (Really? On what planet?) Still, food brings people together like few other things. Perhaps that's why the Lord's Supper is just that. Breaking bread together is truly an ancient tradition.
Perhaps not as ancient as some traditions, like motherhood. By now, it's almost cliche, but where would we be without mothers? Silly question; silly tradition. We shouldn't need a special day to honor our mothers. We should be doing it on a daily, no hourly basis.But we don't, so it's for the best that one day a year we decide deliberately to honor our mothers. Our fathers have to wait another month.
But E: he only had to wait for the cake.
And then came the fun. For E, the present selection process was simple: anything with wheels. Is it a cliche? Who cares -- he is simply obsessed with any and all vehicles, and knowing this simplified present choices for everyone.
But the real present of true he received long ago, when I was so blessed to marry the woman I married. L's best present, too. And mine.
Theoretically unnecessary or not (come on -- must we be reminded to be thankful for those who cleaned our backsides and spanked them too?), I'm still glad we have Mother's Day.
Pre-Party Saturday
Tomorrow is the Boy's birthday party. His actual birthday isn't until Wednesday, but who really throws a birthday party on Wednesday when we can do a double-duty birthday/Mother's-Day party on the preceding Sunday?
The upshot of this plan was simple: K kicked everyone out of the house in the early afternoon to work on the cake. It was one of those moments really to make me realize just how ineffably wonderful K is: how many would make a Black Forest cake as opposed to simply buying a cake at this or that bakery? In the end, it's not important how many would bake versus buy, it only matters that E and K are lucky enough to have a mother who bakes.
So the Boy and I headed to a park while the Girl went to a neighborhood friend who recently got a puppy. Everyone was happy. K had a quiet house in which to bake and clean; E had a playground to overwhelm him; the Girl got to play with both a friend and a puppy.
We all returned afterward for cake decoration, which doesn't go quite as planned, and fresh fruit with whipped cream -- as in heavy whipping cream that's been whipped -- and some last-minute playing in the yard.
The whole time, the Boy was thrilled.
"Who has 'happy birthday' tomorrow?" we all asked in turn.
The Boy points to himself and shouts, squeals, or barks, "Happy birthday!"
Panoramas
K and I recently bought a new camera, a Fuji x100 — a digital rangefinder.
Well, not new: we got it on Ebay for less than half the price of a new model. Small and sturdy, it looks like a rangefinder from the 1970’s.
One feature I was not aware of before the purchase, though, was the panorama mode.
It’s sort of like getting just what you wanted for Christmas, opening it, and finding a one hundred dollar bill stuffed inside as well!
The New Tent
We'll be heading out camping as a family of four for the first time on Memorial Day weekend. Only problem: our tent (four-person? or is it a three-person tent?) is definitely not enough for the four of us. Enter: our six-person tent.
After School
The Boy goes for his farm set.
The Girl plays with her kitten.
Violations
In some ways, it's an unbelievable irony. I spend the entire school year answering students' questions, encouraging students to ask questions so I can answer them, begging students to ask questions. I sometimes have to teach students how to ask questions or even when.
"If you just blurt things out, you're creating a problem instead of a solution," I say. I know the kid has heard this a thousand times; I know, because I've told him at least 974 of those times. Still, I say it again: after all, it was a legitimate question. Wasn't it?
Sometimes the questions stump me. Sometimes humorously: "Mr. S, why do they call a grapefruit a grapefruit? Why don't they call grapes "grapefruit" and grapefruit "big citrus ball"? Sometimes seriously: "But why doesn't that appositive have commas?" To the first type, I just laugh; to the second, I reply honestly: "I don't really know. I'll do some research and let you know tomorrow."
But no matter the topic or the nature I (mostly) live for questions. They're little signs of motivation, indications that the students are thinking, are trying.
And then today, after testing -- the state-required SCPASS that measures my success as a teacher and my students' success as students, or so they say -- I get a question.
"Mr. S, what does X mean?"
It's at the end of the day; I'm tired. Test violations and test rules are not even close to considerations; heck, I'm not even thinking about why the girl asked the question.
I answer her.
She asks another.
I catch on.
"These are from the test today, aren't they?" I ask sweetly.
"Um..." she smiles.
"You know I can't discuss this. I've told you guys a hundred times. We can't talk about it. Period."
"But why?" she insists.
Indeed.
The nature of standardized testing makes them completely useless as pedagogical devices. Assessment is meant to drive curriculum: you take the results of the test and decide where to go from there. Do I need to reteach? Did they catch it all? What topics give students the most trouble?
But these standardized tests are exceptions to that rule. I won't know the results until next fall, when there's nothing I can do with it except to use it to set my goal for improvement next year I can't discuss it with students after they take it so that we can fill in the gaps the test exposed. It's just an enormous time suck that seems to have no other purpose than bureaucratic harassment.
But I give the straight answer: "It's just the rules."
"That's stupid."
True. I guess in a way it was a test protocol violation. The real violation, though, came much earlier, in the design and implementation of these protocols.
Slow Down, Honey!
On the Bed, on the Couch
