Exercize has never been my thing. It's not the sweating or the working hard either. It's just that, with the exception of kick boxing (which I love but haven't done in many years), it doesn't speak to me. At the beginning of exercize being a-thing-we-do in America - like in the 80's when Aerobics came into fashion, I went with my Mom once. I bought a pair of grey leg warmers from K-Mart in preparation for the event and that was the best part of it. Just a bunch of people jiggling around a room was a little unsettling for me. Let alone me being one of those people. Very unsettling.
So you can see, I'm not with the masses on this one. Growing up I was pretty much a straight and narrow kind of girl. I remember only a few times when there was occasion for major punishments of any kind. There was the time that I got a warning in Earth Science that I was failing. That was bad. There was the time that I had a friend over when there was no parent home. Not good. Oh, and the famous time that I had a friend sleepover when my parents went out and we made and ate half a batch of cookie dough with all liquids replaced with liquor from my dad's cabinet. Hehe. That was funny. And sickening.
But the worst punishment was about exercize. It was around the time of the advent of aerobics too, by the way. Now there's a "walk" for everything but this was the first one I was aware of - it was the Walk for Hunger in Boston, Mass. We decided to go the week before so we didn't have time to gather any pledges but we rode the hour to Boston to walk anyway. I suppose that I didn't see the point in walking like a million miles to not raise any money, so I compelled a friend to hop on the T with me and hit a groovy festival that I had heard of in Harvard Square. Then we took the T back to the ending point of the walk and said "wow - what took you guys so long?" And I'm still being punished. For real. Not even joking.
The thing is that I never felt guilty. I did feel punished but I actually thought it was smart. Walking for no purpose was purposeless. I had fun at the festival. It was a good choice if you ask me. And guilt is a part of the Jewishy fabric of my being so you can rest assured that I should have felt guilty but I didn't.
All of this to say that the other day my boys had the day off of school and I brought them to pick up their sister at their old school (which is her new/old school - the one that's not free). The first thing that came out of my 1st grader's mouth after the swarm of old teachers and friends abated was "I want to come back here too". And here I am, days later, still sitting with the guilt. Because here's what I've done. I've taken something beloved away then given it back to one person but not the others. They have a wonderful school that they really love and are doing great at, this I know. I can't afford to send them back to their old spot but that's beside the point - their new spot is truly great.
So I didn't account well for the emotional factor in all of this. The joy on the boys faces when they got to play with old friends. Because we didn't move away, they are across the street. And because they don't understand that it was lucky to get a mid-year spot for their sister. And because they are walking for hunger according to the rules of the game and they are watching their sister, in their minds, take the T over to Harvard Square and hang out at the festival that they think would have really rocked more than aching shins.
What I'll do with this excessive guilt is up for grabs. I'm thinking I'll stay the course for a bit though and wrangle through the guilty feelings - people are different and the boys are having a blast at school when they aren't remeniscing / seething with jealousy. OK - guess I'll grab my leg warmers and push through the class, everyone will be happy and in good shape in the end.
Hit by a Meteor
I probably think more about the dinosaurs than other people. I'm not a paleontologist or even a scientist; I just think it's pretty weird that our earth was inhabited by a bizarre hodge-podge of creatures a long time before us. And furthermore, I think it's odder still that someday some dinosaur-type-character may again exist and never know that we roamed the earth before them. Or worse yet they'll study us and read this blog and think "wow - who cares?". Not to be depressing but things change.
I've always considered my life as somewhere between normal and bizarre but today was like an international flight. When you leave Detroit, sleep in a drug / champagne combo stupor for 13 hours and wake up in Hong Kong. Isn't that a strange feeling - like some part of your life must be a dream but it's not clear which? I both love and hate that feeling. Sort of how I feel when I think about dinosaurs or ancient greeks or something else ye olde.
At 11:40 I went to get my daughter, sign the very official withdrawl slips with which a full copy of her, I kid you not, permanent record, was bestowed upon me. Glad to have that indeed. I met her in the cafeteria where she was walking out of the lunch line with a box of milk and a naked hot dog on a tray. We sat at a long table on round attached stools across from a pack of very tall boys, three of whom are from the shelter, one of whom tied my same daughter up yea, those few weeks ago. Every once in a while the deafening roar was interrupted by a relatively ancient cafeteria watcher-person clapping 5 times to calm the lunching lions.
We walked up to her classroom to clean out her desk which is huddled around three others to make a bit of a square type formation. The biggest baddest troublemaker has his desk all alone off to the side of the room. Now, last night we didn't ask our daughter to do her homework because it seemed silly but she had all of her "money" taken away from her today - it would seem that not doing homework costs you 3 photocopied dollars that are earned through good behavior or smart question answering. In any case, we averted that near hysteria and focused on many goodbyes. My daughter is more of a grown-up lover than kid lover so we had to visit the classes of teachers I had never seen nor heard of in my life to say "adios". Everyone (the adults more than the kids it must be said) gave big hugs and said goodbye and how wonderful she is and how much she'll be missed. And I tried hard not to cry at the thought that this move across the street must be a mistake - so many wonderful people who appreciate her and love her!
Well, a few tears dripped but neither of us were blubbering or anything unattractive like that. We stopped at a bakery for a comfort croissant then crossed the street to the new/old school and all of the tears were forgotten. In fact, I had to run to catch up with her as she blazed a trail to her room. It felt like nothing but a long, lazy summer had passed and it just felt, well, right for her. The wide open classroom with tables and barrels (really, I know) to sit on was really not the most impactful. The most impactful were the number of happy faces, smiles and all out joy among teachers and kids alike at seeing my little girl. I spent an hour trying not to cry and wondering how she was managing so gracefully this trans-continental flight that we were flying.
But here was the thing that confirmed my decision. Try as I may, I couldn't envision my other two school aged children walking the same trail that we did today. I couldn't envision them saying a breezy goodbye to their teachers and friends and skipping merrily across the street. I couldn't see them re-integrating as though no time had passed. And that was testament to the difference between these kids. Both of my boys fit just fine at their new school and, try as she did, my daughter never did.
This has all got me thinking about life and personalities and the dinosaurs. Today my first grader told me how the dinosaurs all "perished". See, there was a big meteor that fell from the earth and killed all of the plants. Then the plant eaters didn't have any food so they died. Since they were all dead there was nothing for the meat eaters to eat so they died. So, to quote his deep historical knowledge "all the dinosaurs really died of starvation". I actually have a healthy respect for made up history, so I was great with that explanation but it did leave me wondering – how much of our lives is fact and how much is our own imaginary figments?
I like to think that today I did something good and right. But sometimes I think that I did just plain something – and since no one can choose both paths, I’ll never know if it was truly good or right. But one thing is for sure – it’s just a moment in time like so many others for so many different people and creatures that have come before us. And we’re lucky – plant eaters or meat eaters, they didn’t get to pick which side of the street their kids should go to for an emotionally fulfilling experience, they got eaten or hit with a meteor or something - kind of puts it in perspective, eeh?
I've always considered my life as somewhere between normal and bizarre but today was like an international flight. When you leave Detroit, sleep in a drug / champagne combo stupor for 13 hours and wake up in Hong Kong. Isn't that a strange feeling - like some part of your life must be a dream but it's not clear which? I both love and hate that feeling. Sort of how I feel when I think about dinosaurs or ancient greeks or something else ye olde.
At 11:40 I went to get my daughter, sign the very official withdrawl slips with which a full copy of her, I kid you not, permanent record, was bestowed upon me. Glad to have that indeed. I met her in the cafeteria where she was walking out of the lunch line with a box of milk and a naked hot dog on a tray. We sat at a long table on round attached stools across from a pack of very tall boys, three of whom are from the shelter, one of whom tied my same daughter up yea, those few weeks ago. Every once in a while the deafening roar was interrupted by a relatively ancient cafeteria watcher-person clapping 5 times to calm the lunching lions.
We walked up to her classroom to clean out her desk which is huddled around three others to make a bit of a square type formation. The biggest baddest troublemaker has his desk all alone off to the side of the room. Now, last night we didn't ask our daughter to do her homework because it seemed silly but she had all of her "money" taken away from her today - it would seem that not doing homework costs you 3 photocopied dollars that are earned through good behavior or smart question answering. In any case, we averted that near hysteria and focused on many goodbyes. My daughter is more of a grown-up lover than kid lover so we had to visit the classes of teachers I had never seen nor heard of in my life to say "adios". Everyone (the adults more than the kids it must be said) gave big hugs and said goodbye and how wonderful she is and how much she'll be missed. And I tried hard not to cry at the thought that this move across the street must be a mistake - so many wonderful people who appreciate her and love her!
Well, a few tears dripped but neither of us were blubbering or anything unattractive like that. We stopped at a bakery for a comfort croissant then crossed the street to the new/old school and all of the tears were forgotten. In fact, I had to run to catch up with her as she blazed a trail to her room. It felt like nothing but a long, lazy summer had passed and it just felt, well, right for her. The wide open classroom with tables and barrels (really, I know) to sit on was really not the most impactful. The most impactful were the number of happy faces, smiles and all out joy among teachers and kids alike at seeing my little girl. I spent an hour trying not to cry and wondering how she was managing so gracefully this trans-continental flight that we were flying.
But here was the thing that confirmed my decision. Try as I may, I couldn't envision my other two school aged children walking the same trail that we did today. I couldn't envision them saying a breezy goodbye to their teachers and friends and skipping merrily across the street. I couldn't see them re-integrating as though no time had passed. And that was testament to the difference between these kids. Both of my boys fit just fine at their new school and, try as she did, my daughter never did.
This has all got me thinking about life and personalities and the dinosaurs. Today my first grader told me how the dinosaurs all "perished". See, there was a big meteor that fell from the earth and killed all of the plants. Then the plant eaters didn't have any food so they died. Since they were all dead there was nothing for the meat eaters to eat so they died. So, to quote his deep historical knowledge "all the dinosaurs really died of starvation". I actually have a healthy respect for made up history, so I was great with that explanation but it did leave me wondering – how much of our lives is fact and how much is our own imaginary figments?
I like to think that today I did something good and right. But sometimes I think that I did just plain something – and since no one can choose both paths, I’ll never know if it was truly good or right. But one thing is for sure – it’s just a moment in time like so many others for so many different people and creatures that have come before us. And we’re lucky – plant eaters or meat eaters, they didn’t get to pick which side of the street their kids should go to for an emotionally fulfilling experience, they got eaten or hit with a meteor or something - kind of puts it in perspective, eeh?
Minks and Black Bread
I bet you thought there was no more about me that you could learn but did you know about my trip to the USSR? Yes, I know that dates me. But when I was 15 I went on a trip to the USSR. In February. And I would be remiss in not informing you that it was incredibly cold and there was no food that I found edible at that time in my life. Potatoes, cabbage and black bread at every meal and then a Toblerone chocolate bar for dessert purchased at the store for foreigners where you can only use foreign currency. That right there was a long 10 days for the ol' stomach. I've recovered now though.
Back in the USSR I had a few really moving experiences. I smuggled in toilet paper, prayer books and a cateloupe to bring to the home of a Jewish refusnik family who weren't permitted to leave the country. They had twins my age and I shared tea with them in their house where I sat next to the slats that served as window panes and between two pans catching the snow melt from the leaking ceiling. I wished that I could give them everything and I wished that I didn't object quite so much to wearing fur because this would have been the time for it.
We searched Moscow for a decent restaurant one night. Without knowing Russian it's hard because everything was grey with a few neon signs lighting the way. For your future needs, the word for restaurant looks something vaguely like this - "PECTOPAH". I guess that's how it has felt navigating a new school system. Like it's really gray and there are a few lights but somehow I can't read the signs. I keep finding out new and wonderful things. Thank goodness my kids are so resilient because I have no idea how they'd manage through this new territory otherwise.
And I do object to wearing fur even if it's really really cold out. I actually don't wear leather either because otherwise that'd be inconsistent. But sometimes I buy leather shoes. Because they are comfortable and they last a long time and they look pretty. And, incidentally, I am weak. Today, for example, I considered some new boots, but instead went for the mink. I signed the re-enrollment contract for my daughter to return in 10 days time to her old school. Now hang on there, I'm not saying private school is like slaughtering a thousand crying minks for your own warmth. It costs more than that. But I am saying that I reached an important conclusion in the days leading up to my presumably dramatic return after which I will be split across the aisle, a parent in two worlds.
Here is what I thought about. It was the twin girls in the chilly, leaky apartment in the Moscow slums. Those two girls were very different. In fact, I remember that I liked one a lot more than the other. One was bookish, one was musical. One was serious and the other was funny. I won't tell you which I liked better because that would be rude and they might be reading. But, here's the thing that's for sure - they were two very different people.
As are my children and, if you have children, likely so are they. I seem to have some children who thrive in the cold Moscow winter with their father's wool trench coat and some who need more shelter from the elements, a mink stole of sorts. My two middle children seem to be thriving and in many ways excelling in the world of clear standards, strict rules and competition. My 1st grader in particular is enamored with his teacher and enjoys the routines and structure of the classroom. My 3rd grader though, is just stressed. And a (really smart and awesome) 3rd grader shouldn't be stressed about her hours of homework, she should be loving learning like her younger siblings.
That she is not loving and embracing learning because she is busy keeping all of the requirements straight and being sure to excel against each of them, is most disturbing. She is the kind of person who thrives on being hugged by a thick, warm coat on a chilly winter day. She likes the community of learning and the process of learning more than the possession of the resulting facts.
In the USSR we slept on an overnight train between Moscow and St. Petersburg. In my car, we drank vodka to keep warm and couldn't sleep all night. In the next car, the kids couldn't fend off the sleep to escape from the cold. And so it is - whether it's wool or mink, vodka or sleep, navigating the signs of life is hard work when they are written in another language. And my greatest responsibility as I see it is to do my best to provide each child the tools that they uniquely need to make the hard choices ahead in life. Though the tools and schools are different, rest assured, none of them are 3 meals a day of cabbage and black bread and hopefully no one will need a mink for protection.
Whatever the school, I hope that everyone will end up being able to find a "PECTOPAH" when they really need it.
Breaking Ground
What comes to your mind when you think of "breaking ground"? I think about the shiny new junior high building at our old school. Or perhaps the sparkling new school that we're at now. I think about a new thought or idea that is innovative and filled with potential - a ground breaking idea. I infrequently consider the letter "g" but I suppose I'm yet again the only one.
The letter "g" is ground breaking in that it goes below the line that you're suppose to write on. Like this: g. Well, the typed "g" is apparantly only a little bit ground breaking, it hasn't quite realized it's delicious potential as a letter.
Today, was our first parent teacher conference. We were allotted 20 minutes while the kids went to music and fortunately arrived promptly. The teacher who is completely lovely, rushed us through a thick folder of kindergarten level tests, showing off 100% after 100% before she broke the bad news. Our son just isn't up to snuff in writing. "His g's don't break the ground and his i's don't touch the ground. See?" And then we were shown a standardized kindergarten penmanship paper that should have better demonstrated the flaw that we were somewhat unable to recognize. The 'g' that he had made rested above the line.
We actually know, have had regular contact with, and really like this teacher so she quickly sized up our absolutely all-consuming horror. If you've read much of this written account of our adventures in school swapping (it is like wife swapping but you don't get your own wife back), then you probably know that our horror was not related to the fear that our son's "g's and i's" have of the ground. It was related to the littany of tests splayed before us. She quickly let us know that "every single kindergartener in the state takes these exact same tests and if I ruled the world, well, things might be different but they aren't".
And here is what we have spent 3 years paying for (which this very kind teacher now knows). We paid for and seem to have adopted a ground breaking disdain for standardized testing, a feeling that we don't have standard kids, and a certain validation of our perspective which looks something like "he won't go up for his Bar Mitzvah with his g's above the line". But I do wonder if we needed to pay for that perspective. If there isn't perhaps a way to manage "testing" without really showcasing it to the children or letting them know about their shortcomings. If there isn't a way for them to succeed and excel without knowing, all the while actually collecting, the metrics.
I asked subtly about this idea but it seems that the skills "build" on each other year after year so the ability to create the written 'g' in all it's perfect glory is prized beyond a single classroom. Which, as we all know, means that it's a system and not a classroom that requires conquering and redefining. And that system conquerization is probably more that I'm up for.
Another little example. On our Kindergartener's report card (21 dimensions were rated therein), he received mostly "Growth" on his behaviors. Now, as you well know, he is a "green" kid and so I would by fibbing were I to say that I wasn't surprised by the "B" equivalent against most behavioral standards. I asked about this in the conference today and was met with a curious and insightful reply. The reply was this: "most kids get a G rating because we don't want them to get an S (the next highest) and have nothing to work toward for the rest of the year". As though a 5 year old would get in his mind that he should rest on his laurels and start acting up because he had Kindergarten in the bag. Or some parent might pressure their kid to step it up because they didn't achieve to the highest kindergarten rating. Well, maybe they would. I guess I just wouldn't. And maybe this system that I'm plotting my battle plans for as we speak, isn't made up of people who think like me. Bummer.
Oh, I learned too today that my son, among his very specific array of faults, couldn't identify a sphere when he began kindergarten. How embarrassing for me.
Sweet Potato Art?
It is with some concern that I send my 3rd grade daughter to school tomorrow armed with her well thought out and pretty good submission to the "Sweet Potato Contest". Sweet Potatoes are, of course, this months "farm to table" featured produce of the month. Which is very cool. I mean, it's cool to have a "farm to table featured produce of the month" not that it is sweet potatoes.
It's October so clearly the theme of the fall veggie is ripe for "farming to tabling". That being said, everything around here is a contest. And my daughter really would like to win a contest. And so I am sending my very proud and excited girl to school with a great contest entry - a picture of what is quite obviously, a piece of crap. No, no, don't get me wrong. The picture itself isn't crappy, it is just an illustration, as you can see from it's photo, of a piece of crap with a green onion ring on a leash as it's pet. Cleverly formatted as a "wanted" ad.
What's a Mom to do? The girl is inspired to win the farmer's market gift certificate! The picture you see here is her second draft! I am forced to wonder what an illustration of a sweet potato in a child's hand would look like that differs from this version, and every one I can conceive of is unmistakably shitty.
I wonder if tomorrow the school will receive 300 pieces of poop art and have a moment of panic in which they realize what they have done. Fortunately, they plan to decide on the winner via random drawing at lunch time. Or is that unfortunate? I have this horrible feeling that my daughter's will be chosen at random out of a huge toilet bowl of submissions and held up high for the whole school to see. That it will be one of those movie moments where she bounds up so excited to have won and turns around to see the whole school cracking up in the background as she realizes with horror that she has submitted a piece of crap in leiu of sweet potato. The scene goes fuzzy. You know the one, I'll assume.
I don't even have an example of this from my own childhood - I'm flying blind here. But I can't call the school and say "nooooo!" at this point - too late. I can't tell my daughter not to submit her piece of... art. So I guess that we'll see what tomorrow brings and hope that the theme of competition that is so pervasive at school doesn't inspire a "Captain Underpants" type day and that her artistic dignity is preserved by just not getting hers picked.
Good luck tomorrow, sweet elementary school, this should be good times.
The Made-Up Test
It is with relative infrequency in life that we get a true opportunity at a do-over. To go back, erase what has been done and just give it another go. This didn't seem to be the case at school this week, however. This week, my 1st grader got this ultimate chance at redemption. He got to do a "make over". If you don't know what that is, then you may be just like me. I asked, of course - that's my style. The response was "oh - it's when you miss a test, then you get to do a made-up one".
I suppose he's talking about the beast known as the make-up test but his language has really been pretty insightful for me. Is the need to spend your recess inside doing 3 tests that you missed on a religious holiday a make-over? An opportunity to reinvent yourself into something new and more glamorous? Or is it made-up - an opportunity to create a fiction that surrounds the importance of the activity?
Well, on this very day, I found myself wrestling with this question as I examined the application deadlines for re-admittance to our lovely old school. I viewed that website today wondering if reinventing ourselves into people who don't pay for schooling was a mistake for some of our kids. I wondered if perhaps the best possible thing to do is to ask for a do-over at least for our eldest. I rediscovered in this internal debate a very long held believe - there is no absolute.
OK - getting a little Buddha - Dharma funky on you here but stick with me a moment. I have a second long held theory and that is that there is only one group. So - in whatever situation you're in, there's only one group. You aren't the "only cool kid in the medieval recreation society", take my word for it. You aren't the "only kid in the nerdy group who is actually cool", it's just not likely. You aren't the "only public school kids who aren't sure that they are in the right place" either. There is one group. As diverse as we are as people, I learned when I was "the only cool kid who dated a 15 year old 8th grader" that anyone who meets that description is likely not tipping the coolness scale.
So back to the belief that there is no absolute. This may seem pretty obvious, but we as humans spend a whole lot of time in pursuit of the "right path", the "truth", the "way". We spend a lot of time concerned about having all the ducks in a row. But have you noticed that ducks don't like to line up perfectly. Because they waddle side to side so they really can't be in a perfect line. The expression itself shows us that if all the ducks were to be in a row then they wouldn't be ducks after all. So you get the picture here, right?
My son stayed in from recess to do 3 made-up tests. The three made-up tests were instead of the 3 real tests that he missed. He took these tests to make himself over - from a guy who missed some tests to a fully achieving guy with all boxes checked. Let's not worry for now about how a 1st grader can miss 3 tests in a single day, that's a strange subject to attack another time. Let's worry instead about whether I plan to re-apply to school next year.
If there is no absolute truth then it sure makes this school decision more difficult. I had the big plan to get my make-over to being a new public school kind of Mom. I've learned that I love that for some of my kids - I am absolutely part of the group that thinks it's great to support the public schools and that my kids are learning a lot both academic and non academic in this environment. I also seem to be the kind of Mom who thinks that there are special kids who with thrive best in a special kind of environment and when you find the perfect fit for them that perhaps you shouldn't give it up. So I belong to two seemingly opposing groups and I must not be the only one.
In my case, I suppose that there is good fortune in having 4 children. I can send some to where they fit and some to the best idealogical solution. Too bad they aren't one and the same and even more too bad that they aren't both free, quite frankly. But holding each of these solutions in my hands, I realize that there is always an opportunity to ask for a do-over, to make-over who you are and to bring your new learnings to make a happier, healthier family.
And that's not made-up.
Resilient Apple
Who among you will fall on the floor in an old style faint if I say that I don't really think that kids are as "resilient" or "adaptable" as we think? Because every person, to a tee that I have spoken with about our big school change (or any other change of ours for that matter) has been sure to inform me of just how resilient kids are. It's a way to placate the worried mom, got it.
Since my son no longer eats turkey bacon, only pork bacon, I beg to differ. I suspect, actually, that children just have a limited emotional vocabulary and even more limited selections for responses to emotional situations. I mean, I'm no child psychologist, (lucky for the children who have been saved from that "therapeutic" experience), but it seems like people get more versatile and controlled in their reactions the older they get, not the younger they are.
Take my baby. That drooly one who helped me to decide on not attending private school when she ate the bill. Remember her? She is one year old now and she has vastly increased her emotional reaction repertoire. Now she sits around, laughs AND cries. Before, see, she only cried and sat there. 33% increase in just a year! Well, she is exceptional of course, but wow!
I remember a time in 6th grade (according to this theory I'd then have 12 different emotional reactions in my arsenal although I bet the growth rate slows at some point). We grew up as K-Mart shoppers, not department store people, but once we went to a department store. I identified the most amazing "winter" coat. It was barely stuffed with Polyester, not quite the thick down numbers that New England winters called for. Anyway, long story short - I remember it well. It cost a very very shocking $110. Really, 30 years ago, that was a lot. It's really kind of a lot now too, right? Well, my Mom very kindly bought me this coat that I was clearly planning to pass away without. She bought it, though, in October, saying that it was "one of your Hanukkah presents". I agreed to this logic because nothing could have been more important than this coat and I knew I was pushing my luck by having it at all. But I forgot the deal. And on the first, most festive night of Hanukkah, when I unwrapped a giant gift that turned out to be the coat, I ran away immediately, with only the coat in question for protection from the elements.
In the 16 minutes that I was gone, my emotions ran the gammit. The one that I didn't quite have in check though, was resiliency. I wasn't quite ready to look at the coat I'd been wearing for 8 weeks, well up with tears and say "thanks".
For my 30th birthday, someone close to me who should have been giving jewelry, procured for me a calphalon omlette pan and an electric can opener. It did take a few moments to register the shock (if you don't know what's wrong with that, you should probably double check your shopping carts) and to translate it to a "thank you" but the next day, maybe even that evening, we continued as normal. I'm not saying that I had perfected adaptability and resiliency but I was on my way.
What I'm saying is this. I suspect that children are emotionally limited, not particularly resilient. I further suspect that they are taken by their every day activities, by the joy of jumproping 20 times or the devastation of being teased for mismatched attire. Perhaps young elementary aged children just live in the moment and transfer all of the great traumas of that moment until later in their lives when they have some capacity to think through that and accept or dismiss it as important to who they were to become. In the moment, though, I still worry that each thing we do that seems to "go pretty well" and has no apparent impact, is being stored in a secret databank waiting for some point of maturity to surface.
Today, my pork bacon and chocolate eating guy came home having studied Johnny Appleseed and having had an very cool apple fest at school. He was convinced to bring apple fritters (we literally bought all they had at Starbucks on the way to school) as his contribution to the festivity but was not ever planning to touch one himself. By 3:24pm when the bus rolled up, he was really excited to have brought home a green apple. Why? Because apparantly he loves apples. Green, red and yellow ones - yellow topping the charts. I asked him what happened that changed (since I offer him an apple pretty much every day and am met with a look of total horror). "We walked around and the serving people put them on the plate and then we had to put our favorite on a graph so I had to eat them to figure out what to put on the graph to get a prize". Hmph. Why didn't I think of this graphing n' prizing plan?
This guy isn't resilient or adaptable. This guy is living in the moment and seeking the joy of a prize and the pride in pleasing his teacher and not disrupting the class. He isn't running away over a coat, he wouldn't really think of that as a choice quite yet. He isn't drawing pictures of people with x'd out eyes or anything creepy either. People say "see how well they are doing with the school change - kids are so resilient". But that's not because he's resilient, it's because he's limited in his emotional repertoire.
Who among us can say that we are perfectly resilient. That we can be handed any of the hard knocks that come to the door and just bounce off smiling. Maybe we are all still growing our emotional databanks and the older we get, the more we can deal with from our childhoods. So, I wonder, what are my children storing up from this experience? What arsenal will their future therapists be faced with?
I hope that, when the time comes, they'll have grown to understand as I strive to, that nothing stays the same and without change we'd be, well, a bunch of cavemen.
Vampire Children - aka, Those That Suck
This is one of those chapters that one composes with trepidation. Haven't you ever read something that you then talked with someone else about and you each took something different from it? Well, in order to avert such disastrous consequence, let me share the take-away right up front. Some kids suck. And some schools aren't made to avert that sucking from leaching out and getting on others. So, if you don't like that conclusion you'd best refrain from reading on.
My Gryffindor K-Boy invited a friend from class over the other day. The moment he darkened the door I wondered when the date would end. He didn't even pass the threshold before I knew he was trouble. And seriously, the nicest parents known to man - I'm not commenting on parents here because we all rock, of course. So, for this playdate of trouble I mean there was whining, demanding, destructive behavior. Come on, either you know the type or you have the type and don't want to admit it.
In 6th grade I dated the type. In 6th grade, he was a mean bullying loser with lots and lots of zits. Like gross ones. I later learned that he was like 13 and in the 8th grade. For sure he had a mustache to compliment the generous supply of acne. My parents were thrilled at my good choices and still talk about that budding 'stache to this day. They kindly took us to the movies where we awkwardly held hands or something very 70's middle-school risque (which is WAY different than 2000's middle-school risque incidentally). My parents sat in the back and we sat in the front. Or so I thought. I turned around at one point to find the parental units directly positioned at my posterior. A humiliating 3 rows back. Oh the pain of supervision. Well, that relationship lasted only a moment or two because even back then, I could call "vampire" when I saw one. That kid sucked.
As does a child who now occupies a room with my daughter - a daughter who will eat most things including bacon and brussels but just can't seem to break 45 pounds. Each evening at dinner for the first 5 weeks of school there was a report on the new ways this young person had found to torture my lightweight. Mostly it involved mean variations on name callings related to being petite. But when "puny", "tiny", "miniature" and "baby" gave way to "loser", that's when things went south for this bloodsucker. Not to say that this 9 year old was vying for my respect and admiration, but he really was starting to irritate the family and working on strategies to manage the torture became a mealtime ritual.
It wasn't really torture technically until one fine day we learned that he actually tied my petite princess up in a rope at recess, pulled on the rope and sent her flying.
In case you thought that maybe I'd end this story by learning to like this child, you called it wrong. You see, I learned about this in 6th grade. You must immediately dump the losers. Look for those really pointy teeth that suck blood. Look for a mustache on a supposed 6th grader. Look for namecalling as an early sign. Look for those things then rat them out the moment something bad happens. Rat them way out. By my demure daughter would dream of no such thing. She's not a tattler, even when it's a pre-pimpled vampire child to tattle on (which seems like totally fair game to me). But me, I am a good tattle tale. I'd prefer to beat the child up my self but being the non-violent type I contact the teacher, the principal, the counselor - all of the people that I can think to tattle to. If the teachers thought that I irritated them before, they ain't seen nothin' yet.
Here's where this becomes about being a public school. It's not that this never could have happened at the haven that we attended previously - it's feasible, there was never a ton of supervision at recess. It's not that the teachers were too busy to act quickly - the counselor and the teacher moved with great alacrity and there have been 3 full torture free days. It's that the admission standards are low - they just let anyone in, nice or not. And there just isn't time to teach about being nice because of all of the testing and stickering and color coding. So you start with a base of numerous, highly varied children and you add that they never have time to learn that mildly critical life skill that I term "niceness", and - POOF - a Gryffindor winds up coming home with rope burns. And that sucks.
So we as a family have learned a few things. First, no one will stand up for you other than you (and your Mom, same diff). Second, some schools aren't made to teach values, they are built to teach skills and maybe dealing with this kind of torture is a skill of sorts, who knows. Third, stay away - stay far far away - from the vampire kids, they really suck.
The Sorting Hat
I am the Mom of a Kindergarten boy. No, not the chocolatey bacon boy (who, incidentally, has given up bacon but adopted sugar coated cereal as of this weekend). I have never considered this particular K-boy among the most socially perceptive of K-kids but perhaps this new schooling environment brings out the best in him.
I learned about his newfound perceptive genius when I was fully informed, in alpha order, of all of the "red" kids names. Don't panic if you have one of them because I can't recall the names (well, I can but I won't call them out here - how rude!). A red kid is characterized, according to my guy, by "really bad all the time behaving". There is a second list of kids who are "orange". These are the kids who get yellows mostly with an occasional splash of red. The lists continue and creates an exotic color palate including turqoise, pea-green and sunshine yellow. I am actually sort of proud of my cute little budding artist for his knowledge of color mixing but I suspect I should note something other than his artistic prowess.
My kids have recently gotten into Harry Potter. We actually have a witch hat and they love to take turns pretending they are Professor McGonnagle (or sometimes I get to be Professor McMOMaggle). The good Professor places the hat on each child and sorts them into their houses based on their inner qualities. Like the evil ones go to the evil house and the good ones go to the good house and the ones that are kind of boring and neutral go to the, well, yellow house. My kids love this scene and enjoy acting it out, among other broom-flying and potion brewing portions of Harry's first year at Hogwarts. Please don't ask what the white substance sprinkled with floating flowers is when you visit the playhouse in the backyard, OK? You don't want to know, of that I'm sure.
I'm sure that I don't need to make this any more plain because only seriously brilliant people who live their lives in the "green" are reading this right now but... what? If I am to understand, the system of reward and punishment in Kindergarten is so explicit that only 4 weeks into school my newly minted 5 year old has classified each child by their spot on the color spectrum? So it would seem - as plain as a house assignment. In the 3rd grade at least my #12's shameful yellow (so procured for doodling) today was anonymous...
So let's be fair for a second here. At my pretty private school everyone knew who the bad kids were and who the good kids were, right? Like my own K-boy could, well, no - couldn't actually name kids by behavioral hue but I bet the parents could come pretty close. And that is because we all spent a lot of time in our lives resisting the perhaps Darwinian urge to categorize angels and demons as such. Somehow the urge to categorize is indeed irresistible. Whether it is sorting wizards into houses, sorting kids into paint palates, putting students into reading and math groups, selecting a performance rating for a subordinate. Somehow organizing the people around us into small groups helps us humans to get a grip on how we plan to and subsequently manage them.
Is this so wrong? I know where my K-boy stands, he is happy and learning, he is practicing his powers of observation, he is in the best of the reading groups (although apparently he is behind in handwriting... leave that for another day). Slicing and dicing the kids at this early age may be be a useful tool for teachers and administrators who are well equipped to make plans and manage classrooms. My K-boy, however, with his new friends the Crayolas, is just learning for the first time what exactly to do with that knowledge. He is working at making good choices - staying away from the Slytherins (burnt orange) and trying hard to find some fellow Gryffindors (grass green). I sure hope that the Slytherins get to redeem themselves and I hope that my K-boy doesn't miss the chance to hang with some Hufflepuffs (sunshine yellow) along the way.
Progress
Progress is marked in so many ways in our lives, isn't it? It's marked in society by innovation and technology, marked for individuals by successes and failures. Marked by my kids in their first monthly report card. Really! Monthly! I don't know if this trend in rating will continue, but a report card did indeed arrive in the "home" pocket of each child's folder today.
The school I attended growing up was one in which, there's no mild way to say this, hippie-ness reigned supreme. It was pretty much like a public school version of the private school that we just left. So much so that when my Mom first visited said private school she asked "was this school founded in the early 70's per chance"? I thought that she had done some researching and website looking to discover that but no, when asked she said "looks like it". Which, my friends and enemies, is why I love it so much! It looks and feels like my own school but teachers don't go by "Mrs. and Mr." anymore. Needless to say, until middle school, there were certainly no grades or clips but there were conversations and journals. That's how I grew up. Journaling. Go figure.
So imagine my surprise to come home to kids anxious for me to look in their book bag.
Have I mentioned that I'm terrible at poker? I guess that now I have. Actually, I never have played because the rules are way too complicated / I'm not interested enough to figure them out. Partly because I have what is commonly known as "a bad poker face". Like when one child came home complaining of being teased for being small (what WILL they tease about next), I snarled and rolled my eyes "so call him a huge giant who can't find a good hiding spot". Probably not super constructive nor poker-esque but my true thought on the matter.
So imagine my reaction to a paper filled to the brim with numbers and letters. Numbers! Actual scores averaging what I can only ascertain to be test scores! Test scores! For a 1st grader! This is very different from self-motivation. This diverges substantially from my plans to have them not compare themselves against others. This isn't all about Phonics, it's sight words. This isn't creative spelling. I know this because these are all of the tests - spelling, reading, math... "Specials" don't get a grade. Phew.
Their progress is marked at the end of this, the first month of school. And, you know what? I feel pretty well informed about it. And I feel connected to the teachers (who I have irritated endlessly by e-mailing them - they shouldn't respond, it's teaching me bad habits!). And I feel progress myself as well. I feel like this might just work out. I realized that they have never complained about getting on the bus in the morning, they have never said they didn't like their teachers, that no one has revolted against a single test. Progress for us all.
Oh, incidentally, they all rocked their report cards and, in spite of my poker face, I'm proud as hell.
Pride in Paperwork
To: Mom
From: Ms. Teacher
Re: Speech
Hi, Mom - Do you want your child to participate in the President's address today? I did not receive your permission slip. Please let me know. Thanks so much. -Teacher
I'm sure that you now think I'm some sort of science fiction writer, composing other-worldly blog entries regarding the Martian public school system. Because there, on Mars that is, you get to choose whether or not you want to hear something that the elected head of the free world has to say. You don't need special permission to listen, you need special permission NOT to listen.
Nope, this is the same ol' planet earth and the land of the free - the YOUnited states of America. And I didn't even notice that I got a permission slip to fill out although, having received it in triplicate, I did notice the letter itself. The letter in question described the content and intent of the speech being made. You know that I'm politically uninvolved, but I just purely didn't think this was optional. For a few reasons - first because I wouldn't have dreamed that there could be a permission slip without a bodily risk, and second because I am burried in papers of all shapes and sizes, I really didn't see the three slips. Long story short, I called the school and gave my verbal permission.
That verbal permission travelled like the old game of telephone that we all know and love. And we know and love that game because it's true how facts become distorted as more and more people fondle them. Two of the permissions reached their destinations but a third did not. Two children saw the speech and the other, the most politically engaged of the family, stomped toward the car this evening as I pulled up with venom seething from every pore. You can picture the face, right? Imagine that poisonous face saying "WHY didn't you let me watch the President"?
In order to register the kids for school, I (mercifully) did not need thousands of dollars. I did, however, replace each tuition dollar, one for one, with an impeccably filled out article of paperwork. There was proof of residency including utility bills and notarized affidavits (because the notarizing makes it real). But in addition to proving that I live in the admittedly coveted school district, I also had to prove that my children are alive through their official birth certificates. It seems that I had two official certificates and one unofficial. I thought it was fine but the office disagreed and sent me away to get an official copy. Now here's the thing. I have this particular child. That child was born. The particular certificate belonging to that child does not have the offical creasing where the notarized seal would be, but otherwise it demonstrates all of the living time that the child has had.
Well, as you can likely envision, I began an attempt at this retort at the school office this summer and was met with this. "If you don't have the official birth certificate, then in 2 months you'll receive a visit from a social worker. If the social worker has to visit twice then your child will be suspended." Now were this particular child suspended for, say, moving their clip to red too often, that would make some sense. But for never having been born?
I suppose that in the end, it seems that the government funded public school system is going to send a social worker after me for lack of notarization. That self same government funded school system has lost a game of phone tag and prevented a questionably-living human being from viewing a presidential address. Today, I think it'd be fair to say that I may as well live on Mars as I've taken quite limited pleasure in allegiance.
Lucky #12
I really like learning stuff and I like when kids learn stuff and tell it back to you and sound smart. That's probably my favorite part. Sounding smart. So, when my daughter told me all about Paul Revere and taxation without representation, I was really psyched. Because she sounded so smart. Then I went to her classroom and saw how they have learned all about Democracy and the Greeks and things that quite possibly I would not know upon standardized (or any other) test. So you can imagine my elation when I was told that by the end of the year she would be expected to write 5 paragraph essays.
So if you went to grade school with me, you'd probably remember that I'm not super coordinated. I'm not a freak but I've never been, shall we say, a sportswoman. When people flick their fingers toward me I do blink excessively, when I'm challenged to go to a new place I can seldom find it because of a small issue with telling right from left. I was on the tennis team in high school so you can imagine the confusion when I closed my eyes when the ball flew at me, my coach yelled "run right" and I ran left. Anyway, it's not very cute.
So at the Parent Night at school, I was leaning back on the kids mailboxes for a little relax and fell backwards as easily predicted but never anticipated. A parent was busy asking some ridiculous question about band practice so I'm not sure how many people noticed but as I pulled myself up I looked at the mailbox and was struck. I was struck hard. The mailboxes were numbered 1-17. Every night, my daughter places the number 12 on her paper. I had thought it was just one of those bizarre things that kids do like making a heart or smily faced dot above their lower case "i" but as it turns out, she is #12. She is literally a number. And it is 12.
Now, she has tried to explain this to me before but I didn't think it could be true. I mean, she's learned a ton of little cool facts about the ancient greeks in only 3 weeks! I think that she is learning a lot about the tea party and proper paragraph structure and even some math. She's sounding smarter and more grown up by the day!
One time, when I was 15 I went abroad for the summer. My father who loves Brussel Sprouts, along with the rest of my family, took me to the airport and walked me to the gate (ahhh - a different time and place). While we were waiting, I could see my father becoming more and more anxious. Finally he collapsed on the floor, grabbed my ankles and yelled "don't leave me, Baby!!!" while my mortified Mother scooped up my sister and walked away in an attempt to pretend at being a mere passersby.
So perhaps you can tell that being an individual has never bothered me - clumsy with a side of parental humiliation has a way of making you ever more confident. I suppose that time will tell how #12 feels but I sure hope that she always knows she's special and unique and, well, much much more than a number.
Bathing With a Man Eating Shark
Anyone know Jack Pruletsky, the children's poet? Kind of a Shel Silverstein for the 2000's? Well, he has this poem. I can't remember the whole thing but it starts "Homework, oh homework, I hate you. You stink". Then it ends talking about all of the things that'd be better to do with your time. Taking a bath with a man eating shark is one of those ideas. I used to laugh at this clear silliness but now I recognize it for what it is - pure truth.
I now have three children with homework. That's up by 3 children who have seen a rapid close to their lives of leisure. If there were three Greek Gods of Homework (which there aren't as far as my deep research demonstrates), I would think I may have given birth to them - Apathy, Resistance and Resignation. May I tell you their stories? Just a warning - I never said I was good at this parenting thing, right?
Apathy - he is 5. He would way rather lay down on the couch and watch a little scooby-doo than pretty much anything. But there's homework! Like worksheets and phone number practicing to be done! There are 3 things that start with the letter M to select! The amount of energy it takes to get 3 things with the letter M in a backpack is pretty monumental. He doesn't kick and scream or anything, just sort of wanders vaguely off into the other room and plays swordfighting against an imaginary opponent. So I pick the 3 things, shove them in a backpack and move to Resistance.
Resistance - she is pretty much convinced that there is some evil polt that will ruin her. The assignment is to write 4 sentences and the hysterical response that ensues can rival only that shark bath we talked about before. So, I say, "no worries, just let your teacher know that it was too hard". Ooooooo. Look out, mama. I say "it's not my homework, it's yours and you need to make a choice about whether to do it or not". Friends, I could have lived my entire life without ever having this battle. In fact, I'm looking forward to a business trip next week to not have to battle the resistance... She chooses to write the sentences and it's on to resignation.
Of course, resignation is the easiest to deal with. He lacks in zeal but he will comply. He rolls his eyes at the sheer stupidity of reviewing, yet again, how to make a tally mark. He ready with fluency the three letter words that he has known how to read for years. He zips through his list of to-dos and skips away with pleasure.
As for me, well, I am exhausted from pitching this painful exercise as as important and enriching. I'm simply tired from pretending that I really think that the distraction from fun and playtime after an already arduous and lengthy day is enhancing learning. Honestly, don't tell me kids, I'd rather take a bath with a man eating shark. Homework, oh homework. I hate you. You stink.
The Pleasure of Allegiance
Tonight I learned that my kids recite the "Pleasure of Allegiance" over the loudspeaker, fully with left hand on heart and right hand in the air kind of thing. Every day. Now that's pleasure if I've ever heard of it. And who can let this kind of opportunity go to discover what thoughts those thinkers are thinking?
So I ask. And they answer. Well, sometimes they answer - when they don't deem the questions a total insult of intelligence they answer. I can tell when the questions are beneath them when the answer comes back as an armpit fart, to choose an example at random. There are three kids who can speak, just so you know - their responses are listed in order of oldest to youngest. Here's how it went down tonight:
"What pleasure is this about?"
1. Pleasuring in your country
2. Waiting for school to start
3. I have no idea. How the heck should I know.
"What is allegiance?"
1. Loving
2. (armpit fart)
3. (shoulder shrug)
"Why do you say this every day?"
1. To remember how much we love our country
2. It's on the loudspeaker, it would be pretty hard to ignore.
3. So I don't have to move my clip (remember the clip! you have to move it if you do something wrong like suck on your fingers, trace a pattern in the rug with your finger, refuse allegiance!)
Then they all stood together, a wall of solidarity and pleasuring in our country. They recited a vaguely recognizable version of the pledge that we all know. And darnit, I got all teary. Now this is school, this is what I remember - the cracking loudspeaker with the pledge and the string of unintelligible morning announcements. I am moved by the next generation being groomed in the ways of country lovin'.
Stand up and pledge with pleasure, people, or move your clip to yellow. Your choice.
Top Secret
When you've been spending all of your time at a place where everyone can creep up to paying 20K a year for elementary school tuition with apparent ease, I can see how it would be surprising to share a table with 2 homeless kids. In fact, I can see how that would be surprising for lots of people in lots of different situations.
So, when my 8 year old daughter came home chattering about her new table mates ("the janitor helped move the desks around, I didn't get to move my own, Mom") I asked the natural question "who's at your table". I learned their name, rank and serial number as well as the fact that two of them aren't particularly good at getting "points" (whatever those are useful for) and that they often have to "move down their colors" (which sounds dirty but I believe refers to the aforementioned humiliation of changing your color depending on your ability to comply with many and varied rules).
So, the next logical question for a kid in a new school involves "are you friends, does s/he ride your bus, do you want a playdate, where does s/he live?" Usually a chat ensues but this time my daughter clams up. "It's a secret".
Oh - a secret. I convince her that I am an incredible secret keeper and that I would never reveal her secret. And I will take this one to my grave with me. Suffice it to say that my case is compelling and the secret is that these classmates live in "the shelter". Don't tell her I told you, OK? It would be a hit to my credibility.
One of my big anti-private school things was the lack of diversity and the lack of exposure to the real world, but somehow this secret jarrs me. How is my daughter equipped in any way to sit at this table when every other table she has sat at contained affluent mainly caucasian students who's parents lean on X3s with keys to million dollar mansions? So now I see what they mean when they say "careful what you wish for".
Turns out that she spends some time with one new home-challenged friend and that friend is completely horrified by her living situation. She'd hate for all of you to find out, in other words. My compassionate daughter went quickly through a very mature and impressive decision making process. She decided not to "help" her new friend. She decided not to "feel badly" for her new friend. She decided that the best thing to do would be to respect her new friend by treating her like any other kid and by down-playing the homelessness and up-playing the kidishness. "Mom, she's just a kid like me - except she's 2 years older so lots taller".
True diversity requires tough choices, open minds, and fresh perspectives. As it turns out - my girl is pretty good at those things.
The Power of e-mail
Because I'm that kind of person, I counted and subsequently deleted 35 e-mails this morning on the topic of changing our bus route from first on - last off to first on - first off. The subject matter involved all manner of "equity", "ride time regulations", "stop times" and other technicalities that I don't care to recall. Let it be known that this e-discussion took longer than a week of bus riding - we have a bus route with about 12 stops and a radius that can't be more than 3 miles. The kids are on the bus no more than 20 on the outside.
I grew up on a highway near the exit that you'd take to get to my school. The school was about 6 miles from my house and my parents never quite felt the urge to drive me to school. The ride to school was 20 minutes and the ride home took over an hour. I was last on, last off I guess. The point here is that I had to ride past my house, drive for over 45 minutes and then be dropped off at my house. Once, no kidding, I saw a robbery in progress at my own house as the bus barrelled past.
So - why not let me off 45 minutes earlier? Well, I lived on a highway, did you know? And the bus driver wasn't fond of dropping me off, in spite of 12 long years of begging, on the opposite side of the highway. I think that my parents respected that choice and, as far as I know, never made a call or sent a letter (the predecessor to e-mail) to the transportation people. No, my Mom made fruitcakes for me to give to my bus driver for Christmas and heart shaped cookies for valentines day. Just to show our appreciation.
So now here I am - spending my morning deleting engaging emails to the Atlanta Public School Transportation folks and all I can think is - "this is FREE!" We don't even have to pay for gas. Our kids are picked up and delivered safely. I think that's a pretty awesome deal whether it's 7:19am or 7:22am. But then again, I have lots to do.
When I lived in China, I took a fuel inefficient van to work everyday in a bus factory that half of the time was closed due to power outages. Then I'd ride back in the van, use 27 cotton balls to wash the grime off of my face, then get to work. There were kids on the street who would never see the inside of a school and there was no ride time equity in that daily adventure, only nausea from navigating the busy streets in one of those tall, skinny vans.
The point is this - maybe we're a little spoiled. Maybe equity in ride time is less important than our kids being bribed to nazi standards of behavioral perfection. But then again, perhaps this is the only thing that we parents can control - maybe the good, well trained transportation people are the only people who will listen to us. And so we speak. "We" being "them", obviously...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)