the boy
Cool Spring Thursday
We’re nearing the end-of-year testing that will measure students against a static, inflexible standard. Growth doesn’t matter as much as a set level of proficiency. It’s always been a frustration to me that the American education system fixates on proficiency instead of growth. If a student improves his reading level by three grades in one year but still is performing below the eighth-grade level, that is somehow counted as a failure when it’s anything but.
One of the hallmarks of the end of the year is the scramble we’re all making to cover last-minute items. For example, I’d neglected the active/passive distinction, so I’m hurriedly going over it with students, along with verb mood.
“Why are we learning this?” one might ask.
“Because it’s on the test,” is the tempting answer.
In the evening, soccer practice. E made the winning shot on a game the kids were playing and his teammates mob him. It’s a good way to end the day.
Washing Off the Pollen
In the Backyard
I sometimes feel guilty when E asks to spend some time with me, and all I end up doing is sitting and directing him. Today, for example, he wanted to work on a little project he devised some time ago. He’s got it in his head that he can dig a pool in our backyard like he has seen done on YouTube by those Filipinos who carve magnificent structures in the hard clay of their country. He settled on merely making it deep enough to soak one’s feet, and he decided that he wanted to line the sides and bottom with bamboo.
Yesterday in the time I had between coming home from school and heading back to school to photograph the girls’ soccer game, the boys’ soccer game, and the boys’ baseball game, almost all simultaneously, we went out to the woods behind our house cut down one cane of bamboo and brought it back.
Today, he wanted to split it down the middle. His first idea was to partially bury it in order to stabilize it and then use the saws-all to cut it in half. Knowing that wouldn’t work, I suggested that we use clamps to clamp it to something to stabilize it, and he readily agreed to that. Yet everything we tried initially failed. I say everything “we tried,” but the truth of the matter is he did all the work and I simply sat and directed him.
And this is where my dilemma comes in. I was giving him suggestions, photographing him occasionally as he worked. I could’ve just as easily worked with him. Apparently, I saw more value in him having a little practice following instructions and working things out for himself. Or was this just me making excuses for my laziness?
Papa’s 80th Birthday Party
Return to Dupont
"You guys from out of town?" the cyclist asked coming to a slow stop as he navigated the steep downhill that we were climbing.
"Not really -- we're from Greenville." I figured being only 50 miles away doesn't exactly make us tourists.
"Well, most people around here go the opposite way on this loop and go down this hill," he said, I suppose trying to be helpful, but it came across to me as a little -- I don't know, annoying somehow.
"But what about those of us who enjoy hard climbs?" I wanted to say, but thinking I might be only speaking for myself, I said nothing.
"Yes, it seems like it would be more fun," K agreed.
Our interlocutor headed off down the hill, and added, as if he'd read my annoyance and wanted to soothe it and simultaneously aggravate it, "Of course, it's your choice."
Just before December, we went to Dupont forest for some cycling. It wasn't exactly what we'd planned. But since then, the Boy has asked us several times when we're heading back. Today, we finally made it.
And afterward, there was mulch to spread and bikes to wash.
Playing with the Hose
The Day After Easter
A bit of relaxation in the morning.
A little exploration in the afternoon.
A little soccer in the evening.
Comforting the Boy
The Boy and I are finishing up the classic Where the Red Fern Grows. I remember my fifth-grade teacher reading that to us, and I knew how it ends: both Old Dan and Little Ann, the protagonist’s beloved hounds, die. We reached that part today, and it brought the Boy to tears.
“I’m just remembering Bida and Nana,” he said. “I miss them. I want them back.” He sobbed for a while as I comforted him, continually talking about memories he had with them.
After a while, when he was calming down, I asked the Girl to bring in a box of tissues.
“What?” she asked.
“A tissue box.”
“What?!” she asked again, incredulously.
“A tissue box!”
“Oh, I thought you said ‘a fishy box.'”
And like that, the tears turned to laugher.
Spring Monday
