Dear Michigan drivers,
On the left side of your steering wheel is a protruding object. You may think that the manufacturer placed it there to get in the way of your boss tiger fur steering wheel cover, but in fact, it does one of my favorite things- by merely pushing it forward or pulling it toward you, you can signal a turn. Can you believe it? Give it a try sometime. By the way- you do not save (noticeable) gasoline if you coast towards a red light, going slower and slower, without hitting your brakes. If the light is on a sensor, you may be delaying the progression towards a green light. A better idea to save gasoline would be to stay home. Especially if you eat a bowl of ice cream while driving (as seen two days ago) or feel the urge to engage in "relations" with your passenger (as seen a few weeks ago).
Ever so lovingly yours,
Clarateaches
Driving with a baby is something like driving a Brinks security truck, but without the safety in size (and bulletproof glass). You never really notice how fast things are hurling towards you until you strap a little munchkin into her $200 state of the art, five point harness car seat. Then, you go from being a defensive, cool-headed driver to being the inventor of Clarateaches Car Machine Guns ("What to use the next time you see someone texting at the wheel!")
Blasting tunes at top volume disappears as well (although Gianna does seem to like the Beastie Boys) and enjoyable music from my college days (where music will always remain, and my children will someday call me a fogie, to which I will respond, "Turn that crap down!") is replaced by ten rounds of "Six Little Ducks." Mr Clarateaches does not like her music one little bit, except for the funkified version of "Hickory Dickory Dock." He irritatedly punches the "Skip" button, going from Track 5 all the way to Track 30 without stopping, some days.
Each month that passes adds a small increase in the dread I feel when we face a road trip back to our natural habitat, Western NY. As Gianna grows more mobile and less apt to fall asleep within moments of getting into the car, it becomes more difficult to entertain her. Last time I resorted to letting her play with the pens in my purse. This time, I think it's going to take some cold hard cash. Or, a promise of her very own alpaca. Then and only then do I rue the safety of a car seat, and hearken back to the good old days when you could just take a baby out and hold them*. The first person who makes a safety device that allows this, receives a free alpaca from yours truly.
*Do not ever do this, ever.
Monday, June 23, 2008
Friday, June 20, 2008
Come ON! Really?
Onward we march, towards women becoming passive breeders, and the government raising our children. My blood, if it is entirely possible, is reaching its boiling point.
This is older news, but I'll bellyache about it now, just because the past couple of days I've been up to my armpits in a baby that has discovered the joys of unrolling toilet paper. And a dog who stole and ate 16 oatmeal-raisin-chocolate-chip cookies. And also dug a hole the size of a horse. And then unrolled all of her fur all over the house in such a fashion that as soon as I finish vacuuming the entire thing, she's already made a huge mass of fur where I originally started, and the baby is making fur-angels in it. In other words, who the heck has time for the internet? I'm trying to evolve an exoskeleton so that Gianna will stop biting me out of boredom, and six extra arms so that I can continue to save the day. We won't even talk about the carpenter ants using the storms and rain to launch a resurgence, and the environmentally safe pest control company telling me to commune with them with a little more of the love vibes, and a little less of the anger aura before calling them to set up an appointment for a re-spray.
Prepare to sign petitions.
The AMA has declared that home-birth is unsafe, and that they will work hard to ban any birth outside of a hospital.
I'll wait while you read that again. And again. And think about it.
More than 95% of babies are currently born in hospitals in the United States. (American College of Obstetrics and Gynecology) YET, maternal death has steadily risen since 1977. (Gaskin) Infant mortality for the United States is higher than all industrial countries, and even higher than some developing countries. Recently released in the "news" (AKA, what people with common sense can already put together, albeit without the soundtrack and funky graphics and perky newsreader voice) is the alarming statistic that premature births are on the rise due to scheduled inductions and cesarean sections.
And the AMA wants less Home Births?!?
Don't get me wrong here. If a woman makes an evidence-based choice and values-based choice to birth in a hospital with an OB-GYN or CNM, that is her choice and it belongs to HER, just like her birth. Not everyone hates hospitals with my own passion, and a hospital stay is not necessarily a nightmare to everyone. Hospitals need to remain a choice. Home and Free Standing Birth Centers also need to remain a choice. The AMA is trying to tell us that, while I can choose to terminate the life inside of me for whatever reason I want, I should not have the choice to birth wherever I choose. People. Need. To. Pay. Attention. This is only going to get worse.
Action time: Who knows what this will actually do, but here's a petition to sign to keep home birth legal.
Better yet, if this is an issue that drives you, join Citizens for Midwifery, and make it clear to your state representatives (who vote and pass and push for laws based on whoever is the loudest voice... or whoever carries the most bucks) that this is not acceptable, and that Clarateaches will not only give birth on their front lawn if they pass anything resembling the AMA's resolution, but she will consume her placenta in front of them, too.
Drastic times call for drastic measures.
This is older news, but I'll bellyache about it now, just because the past couple of days I've been up to my armpits in a baby that has discovered the joys of unrolling toilet paper. And a dog who stole and ate 16 oatmeal-raisin-chocolate-chip cookies. And also dug a hole the size of a horse. And then unrolled all of her fur all over the house in such a fashion that as soon as I finish vacuuming the entire thing, she's already made a huge mass of fur where I originally started, and the baby is making fur-angels in it. In other words, who the heck has time for the internet? I'm trying to evolve an exoskeleton so that Gianna will stop biting me out of boredom, and six extra arms so that I can continue to save the day. We won't even talk about the carpenter ants using the storms and rain to launch a resurgence, and the environmentally safe pest control company telling me to commune with them with a little more of the love vibes, and a little less of the anger aura before calling them to set up an appointment for a re-spray.
Prepare to sign petitions.
The AMA has declared that home-birth is unsafe, and that they will work hard to ban any birth outside of a hospital.
I'll wait while you read that again. And again. And think about it.
More than 95% of babies are currently born in hospitals in the United States. (American College of Obstetrics and Gynecology) YET, maternal death has steadily risen since 1977. (Gaskin) Infant mortality for the United States is higher than all industrial countries, and even higher than some developing countries. Recently released in the "news" (AKA, what people with common sense can already put together, albeit without the soundtrack and funky graphics and perky newsreader voice) is the alarming statistic that premature births are on the rise due to scheduled inductions and cesarean sections.
And the AMA wants less Home Births?!?
Don't get me wrong here. If a woman makes an evidence-based choice and values-based choice to birth in a hospital with an OB-GYN or CNM, that is her choice and it belongs to HER, just like her birth. Not everyone hates hospitals with my own passion, and a hospital stay is not necessarily a nightmare to everyone. Hospitals need to remain a choice. Home and Free Standing Birth Centers also need to remain a choice. The AMA is trying to tell us that, while I can choose to terminate the life inside of me for whatever reason I want, I should not have the choice to birth wherever I choose. People. Need. To. Pay. Attention. This is only going to get worse.
Action time: Who knows what this will actually do, but here's a petition to sign to keep home birth legal.
Better yet, if this is an issue that drives you, join Citizens for Midwifery, and make it clear to your state representatives (who vote and pass and push for laws based on whoever is the loudest voice... or whoever carries the most bucks) that this is not acceptable, and that Clarateaches will not only give birth on their front lawn if they pass anything resembling the AMA's resolution, but she will consume her placenta in front of them, too.
Drastic times call for drastic measures.
Saturday, June 07, 2008
Mnemosyne
I keep forgetting the blogs I want to post! I did catch a quick peek at the analyst, and it looks like my readership is at an all time low of 3. Oopsies. But, hey over there, Sydney, Australia! And Italy, oh my. Tourniamo subito, I promise; keep reading!
Major child development going on over here. I have hilarious little tidbits that I think, "Oh, I need to blog that," and then poof- it's gone. Good old Mommy brain. Somehow I still can remember a list of adverbs that Mr. Thompson required us to memorize in fourth grade- "Am, is, are, was, were, being, been, have, has, had, do, does, did, shall, will, should, would, may, might, must, can, could. Whew. I'll remember that on my death bed.
At any rate, I need sleep. Perhaps then the memory will return.
The computer's all yours, Mr. Clarateaches.
Major child development going on over here. I have hilarious little tidbits that I think, "Oh, I need to blog that," and then poof- it's gone. Good old Mommy brain. Somehow I still can remember a list of adverbs that Mr. Thompson required us to memorize in fourth grade- "Am, is, are, was, were, being, been, have, has, had, do, does, did, shall, will, should, would, may, might, must, can, could. Whew. I'll remember that on my death bed.
At any rate, I need sleep. Perhaps then the memory will return.
The computer's all yours, Mr. Clarateaches.
Monday, May 19, 2008
Friday, May 16, 2008
See and Be Seen
Someday, my child will embarrass me in public. This may or may not involve the loud chanting of things I would rather that people not know, or perhaps a tantrum or two. Or a tantrum times ten to the power of eight.
Someday, I will embarrass my child in public. Probably for being way cooler than the other moms. No, that's not it. Probably for having wacky hair and a skeletal system that looks like it was assembled by someone with the fortune of owning super-glue, and the misfortune of attention deficit disorder. She just won't care when I tell her that I used to appear normal, but co-sleeping with an active baby who likes to kick me in the face with both feet does a number on your entire system.
Currently, I endure the "unwanted attention in public because you have a baby" stage. Perhaps I should blame public schools- where else would random strangers get the collective idea that peering into my baby's eyes at a distance of three micrometers and bellowing "Ah-BOOOO!" is a positive thing?
We draw a crowd at church. Typically, I need to change Gianna as soon as we get there. It seems church has a laxative effect on her. This involves making my way through her crowd of loyal fans, young and old. Then, desecrating the nursery with the scent of three days worth of taste testing food, including blueberries, which never ever ever come out of diapers. Ever. Unless you sun them, and then they do. Unless you leave the diaper out in the rain, and then forever after you look critically at each one as it comes out of the dryer and wonder- are you the diaper I left outside so carelessly?
My parenting choices sometimes draw a crowd. Yesterday I was talking to two other moms at the park, while Gianna sat in the mulch and inquired about each one.
Me: "Blah blah boring grownup talk, blah blah"
Gianna, holding up a piece of mulch: "Dis?"
Me: "Mulch."
Gianna, holding up a different piece of mulch: "Dis?"
Me: "Mulch."
Gianna, holding up a different piece of mulch: "Dis?" And so on and so forth. She dug through all one thousand, eight hundred and seventy-two pieces in front of her until she hit dirt. Mmmm. After scrubbing her hand in the dirt very seriously, holding her hand in front of her even more seriously, and then going ahead and giving it a taste, she decided that it wasn't for her. With a ring of dirt around her mouth, she moved on to more of her interview: "Dis?" "Mulch." "Dis?" "Mulch." "Dis?"
Suddenly, a mom who wasn't a part of her group rushed over. "Ma'am, do you know your daughter is EATING DIRT?!?" She was quite horrified, and I'm sure she'd be even more horrified that sometimes, the dog creeps over to the highchair and gives Gianna's fist full of banana a surreptitious lick, before I roar and the dog flees to the comforts of the Neighborhood Dog Choir.
I glanced down. Gianna glanced up, telltale ring around her mouth. I couldn't hide that, could I? "Um, yeah!" I answered. Then I didn't know what to say, so I put on my best, "I'm not crazy" smile and waited. She stared at me, and walked back to her group. Probably to blog about the crazy-haired woman who fed her daughter dirt later in the day, who knows.
There just is no blending into the crowd with a baby.
Someday, I will embarrass my child in public. Probably for being way cooler than the other moms. No, that's not it. Probably for having wacky hair and a skeletal system that looks like it was assembled by someone with the fortune of owning super-glue, and the misfortune of attention deficit disorder. She just won't care when I tell her that I used to appear normal, but co-sleeping with an active baby who likes to kick me in the face with both feet does a number on your entire system.
Currently, I endure the "unwanted attention in public because you have a baby" stage. Perhaps I should blame public schools- where else would random strangers get the collective idea that peering into my baby's eyes at a distance of three micrometers and bellowing "Ah-BOOOO!" is a positive thing?
We draw a crowd at church. Typically, I need to change Gianna as soon as we get there. It seems church has a laxative effect on her. This involves making my way through her crowd of loyal fans, young and old. Then, desecrating the nursery with the scent of three days worth of taste testing food, including blueberries, which never ever ever come out of diapers. Ever. Unless you sun them, and then they do. Unless you leave the diaper out in the rain, and then forever after you look critically at each one as it comes out of the dryer and wonder- are you the diaper I left outside so carelessly?
My parenting choices sometimes draw a crowd. Yesterday I was talking to two other moms at the park, while Gianna sat in the mulch and inquired about each one.
Me: "Blah blah boring grownup talk, blah blah"
Gianna, holding up a piece of mulch: "Dis?"
Me: "Mulch."
Gianna, holding up a different piece of mulch: "Dis?"
Me: "Mulch."
Gianna, holding up a different piece of mulch: "Dis?" And so on and so forth. She dug through all one thousand, eight hundred and seventy-two pieces in front of her until she hit dirt. Mmmm. After scrubbing her hand in the dirt very seriously, holding her hand in front of her even more seriously, and then going ahead and giving it a taste, she decided that it wasn't for her. With a ring of dirt around her mouth, she moved on to more of her interview: "Dis?" "Mulch." "Dis?" "Mulch." "Dis?"
Suddenly, a mom who wasn't a part of her group rushed over. "Ma'am, do you know your daughter is EATING DIRT?!?" She was quite horrified, and I'm sure she'd be even more horrified that sometimes, the dog creeps over to the highchair and gives Gianna's fist full of banana a surreptitious lick, before I roar and the dog flees to the comforts of the Neighborhood Dog Choir.
I glanced down. Gianna glanced up, telltale ring around her mouth. I couldn't hide that, could I? "Um, yeah!" I answered. Then I didn't know what to say, so I put on my best, "I'm not crazy" smile and waited. She stared at me, and walked back to her group. Probably to blog about the crazy-haired woman who fed her daughter dirt later in the day, who knows.
There just is no blending into the crowd with a baby.
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
He is close to the brokenhearted...
I know I've beaten the shock and grief of an unplanned, but ultimately chosen, Cesarean section to death by this point. Emotions lead to actions that must be purposefully thought out, in the long run. Otherwise, you cannot call yourself an adult.
After the grief, the anger and betrayal by my own body, I look to the future. I choose to view future births in the light of moving right along. My choice, done in all types of research by even the most mainstream of academies (ACOG), leads me to VBAC. Nope, I'm not expecting another child... yet. Someday. In the meantime, I collect positive stories and accounts of victory over major abdominal surgery.
And THIS STORY is one of the most beautiful. The song made me cry. Only click if you enjoy graphic birth stories.
After the grief, the anger and betrayal by my own body, I look to the future. I choose to view future births in the light of moving right along. My choice, done in all types of research by even the most mainstream of academies (ACOG), leads me to VBAC. Nope, I'm not expecting another child... yet. Someday. In the meantime, I collect positive stories and accounts of victory over major abdominal surgery.
And THIS STORY is one of the most beautiful. The song made me cry. Only click if you enjoy graphic birth stories.
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
Sibling Rivalry
Dog and baby. Baby and dog. Something tells me that soon, Lola will be trying to get up on her hind feet and cruise around the furniture.
It's truly a love/ hate thing with these two. If Gianna cries, Lola looks concerned and acts as though she may have to teach me a thing or two about parenting. If Lola barks, Gianna points at her and yells commands.
The one true battle remains the spot at the bottom of the stairs, in the living room. Lola and Gianna love this spot. Gianna loves it because she can thump her hands on the second stair up from the bottom, and pretend that she's giving her triumphant "I've taken over the world" speech. She also loves it because she likes to climb now. Lola loves that spot probably because Gianna loves it. Also, if she snuggles right up to the bottom stair, she is difficult to see, and I fairly regularly trip on her. She thinks she will be the Alpha Female if I perish.
Typically, Lola will walk to the bottom of the stairs and lay down, while staring at me. She knows exactly what she's doing. Gianna will immediately drop whatever she's doing, and crawl right up to her, and place both hands on the dog, commencing CPR. Lola retaliates by licking Gianna in the ear. Gianna will then, using a corn shucking motion, attempt to cleave Lola's tail in twain. Lola rolls over at this point, in a typical submissive dog stance, but this twists Lola's tail out of Gianna's hands, and all the wagging makes her crawl backwards to get out of the way.
The baby wins, of course. She just smells so irresistibly like bananas and Cheerios and all sorts of other lovely things that are thrown imperiously from the high chair. Lola creeps off to the kitchen to sniff around on the floor, in the hopes that she missed some tossed food the last time she checked, and Gianna crows in victory.
It's truly a love/ hate thing with these two. If Gianna cries, Lola looks concerned and acts as though she may have to teach me a thing or two about parenting. If Lola barks, Gianna points at her and yells commands.
The one true battle remains the spot at the bottom of the stairs, in the living room. Lola and Gianna love this spot. Gianna loves it because she can thump her hands on the second stair up from the bottom, and pretend that she's giving her triumphant "I've taken over the world" speech. She also loves it because she likes to climb now. Lola loves that spot probably because Gianna loves it. Also, if she snuggles right up to the bottom stair, she is difficult to see, and I fairly regularly trip on her. She thinks she will be the Alpha Female if I perish.
Typically, Lola will walk to the bottom of the stairs and lay down, while staring at me. She knows exactly what she's doing. Gianna will immediately drop whatever she's doing, and crawl right up to her, and place both hands on the dog, commencing CPR. Lola retaliates by licking Gianna in the ear. Gianna will then, using a corn shucking motion, attempt to cleave Lola's tail in twain. Lola rolls over at this point, in a typical submissive dog stance, but this twists Lola's tail out of Gianna's hands, and all the wagging makes her crawl backwards to get out of the way.
The baby wins, of course. She just smells so irresistibly like bananas and Cheerios and all sorts of other lovely things that are thrown imperiously from the high chair. Lola creeps off to the kitchen to sniff around on the floor, in the hopes that she missed some tossed food the last time she checked, and Gianna crows in victory.
Tuesday, May 06, 2008
Destroy Your Kids in just a Few Easy Steps!
Hey parents! Do you want to waste a lot of time and money and energy doing a lot of work and accomplishing nothing? Would you like your children to regard you as one whirling, twirling two-legged moron? You gotta try this! For approximately $100, you TOO can show your kids that you are a colossal, meaningless ass.
Ruth A. Peters, Ph. D. (We'll call her Dr. Rap) has come up with a really great way to make China a whole lot of money, and send thousands of young people straight to therapy in a decade or so. Actually, that's probably her goal. Let's take a closer look at her plan. Pull on those Depends, this really made me pee myself laughing.
1) Buy a refrigerator magnet, treats, and a glass jar: Dr. Rap has parents drawing smiley faces, crossing off smiley faces, keeping track of treats and smilies and misbehaviors and time-outs. Oh my. What the ever loving hell? Doc Rap breaks the first cardinal rule of children- they just DO NOT CARE about rewards after a while. Especially the cheapo, lead-filled dollar store junk or tantrum inducing, red dye #40 filled candy that she recommends. (Quick thought- if they are super good children, and "earn" one or all of their treats per day, doesn't this cost about $365- $1095 per year PER KID?!? Not to mention a bajillion pieces of paper with schizophrenic smilies scribbled all over them, X'ed out or otherwise?)
Clarateaches says: If you have the time and energy and even half the money that she thinks this involves, you can find things to keep on hand to occupy children (without the High Fructose Corn Syrup and other various crap, and without sending a paycheck or two to China) when you cannot be directly involved with them. Be proactive, not reactive. What 7 year old on the planet is going to put up with this kind of crap? The shy and quiet ones will retreat, and be cute little pigtailed houseplants with no life or movement, the sneaky ones will figure out how to act out while getting the plastic crap, and the hard heads will decide that watching you draw smiley faces and cross them out all day is more fun than anything else.
Sigh. Moving on...
Digital Timer: Well I'll be. She actually has something right. Kids need concrete, not theoretical. They have no idea what five minutes means, especially if they have a highly distracted adult telling them, "Just five more minutes and then I'll get off the phone and play with you... five more... five more." This holds parents accountable as well- if you mean that you will go to the park in five minutes, you better hold yourself to it!
Poker Chips: Well why not? Let's get these little gamblers started early. Hee hee- look, she says, "I strongly believe that kids should earn their privileges (money, extra clothing and special activities) and not be given these just for existing." But Dr. Rap, in the whole smiley face, glass jar, time out, stand on your head, genuflect, cross yourself, turn around and touch the ground dealie- don't the kids get all kinds of treats for just merely existing? Technically, some waif of a kid can wake up, perform the act of eating and excreting, sit in a chair and do nothing, and win all three of their fabulous prizes, all hand-crafted by someone their own age in the People's Republic of China. Can I just say this again- WHAT parent has the time to dole out the chips and remember who gets what, who has what, and who lost what? If you're the type of parent that has all the time and memory to do this, couldn't you invest this in getting involved with your child in some type of activity that benefits the whole house, or whole family?
Clarateaches says: Involving kids in age-appropriate activities that contribute to the family as a whole is a great idea and involves little more than simply making it a part of their day from the time that they are small. Wear your baby in a sling while you vacuum, play "pick up toys" with your toddler to the beat of a catchy tune, have your preschooler stand at the sink and rinse dishes as you wash them... this is not rocket science, people. Model, model, model.
Ok, these next few take the cake. Videotape tantrums to mock them? Threaten them with sending the tape to family members?!? SHRED CDS AND DVDS IN A PAPER SHREDDER?!?!?! What are the values these are teaching children? Let's just throw money away- I don't like what you are doing, so when I don't like what you are doing, I will ruin something that belongs to you. Don't be surprised if Junior, on a rage at 16, burns the house down. And the tantrum thing- for once and for all- KIDS HAVE BIG FEELINGS. They need a safe place to let them out. If you are the type of person who drags a sleepy, hungry child to the mall for two hours in the afternoon and chats on your cell while going into and out of stores just for little old you, you deserve the whopper of a tantrum that, trust me, will happen.
Clarateaches says: Model, model, model. Do not give items just to use them as something to take away. Tantrums will happen- stay physically present, but don't hover; stay calm and for God's sake, keep your own adult mouth shut. They can't hear you, anyway. When it burns itself out, stay close and hug them- tell them that they were very angry, (scared, sad, frustrated...) and it was a big anger, and now it's all done. And move on. The more accurately you help them to describe what they are going through, the better they will cope next time. It's not permissive in the slightest. Nope, you don't cave in, they don't get to paint the dog's toenails with nailpolish after all. But, you don't make a screaming magenta baboon's ass of yourself in the whole rigamorale of capering about with a cheapo video camera, desperately thinking of all the people in your address book who can be sent your child's tantrum. Which, by the way, if you threaten it- be prepared to actually do it. Trust me on this one- no one wants to see your child's tantrum. There probably are only so many times that you can send Aunt Beatrice your child's tantrum before she starts sending you her toy poodle's droppings through media mail. Be an adult and model appropriate behavior. BY THE WAY- If you're the bright red-faced, screaming individual honking his horn at an elderly man making his way across the street while you were trying to turn right on red the other day, you pretty much have your own self to blame if Screamy the Second uses his "dog whistle voice" every time life runs contrary to what he originally imagined.
There you have it, folks. Right there is where it all goes to hell. "Why are kids so disconnected? Why can't they learn the value of their property? How come they don't value their family?" Shred their property while at the same time give them endless plastic junk just for staying under the radar. Laugh and mock their feelings during the age where they are trying to learn what the hell to do with them. Spend your day so busy trying to remember which of your three darlings has retained all of their smiley faces and which has already had two crossed out, and which time-out which one is on, so that you cannot spend any on showing them the appropriate way to behave. You, too, can have kids coked to the gills on all kinds of pharmaceuticals by the time they graduate high school. Way to "parent."
Ruth A. Peters, Ph. D. (We'll call her Dr. Rap) has come up with a really great way to make China a whole lot of money, and send thousands of young people straight to therapy in a decade or so. Actually, that's probably her goal. Let's take a closer look at her plan. Pull on those Depends, this really made me pee myself laughing.
1) Buy a refrigerator magnet, treats, and a glass jar: Dr. Rap has parents drawing smiley faces, crossing off smiley faces, keeping track of treats and smilies and misbehaviors and time-outs. Oh my. What the ever loving hell? Doc Rap breaks the first cardinal rule of children- they just DO NOT CARE about rewards after a while. Especially the cheapo, lead-filled dollar store junk or tantrum inducing, red dye #40 filled candy that she recommends. (Quick thought- if they are super good children, and "earn" one or all of their treats per day, doesn't this cost about $365- $1095 per year PER KID?!? Not to mention a bajillion pieces of paper with schizophrenic smilies scribbled all over them, X'ed out or otherwise?)
Clarateaches says: If you have the time and energy and even half the money that she thinks this involves, you can find things to keep on hand to occupy children (without the High Fructose Corn Syrup and other various crap, and without sending a paycheck or two to China) when you cannot be directly involved with them. Be proactive, not reactive. What 7 year old on the planet is going to put up with this kind of crap? The shy and quiet ones will retreat, and be cute little pigtailed houseplants with no life or movement, the sneaky ones will figure out how to act out while getting the plastic crap, and the hard heads will decide that watching you draw smiley faces and cross them out all day is more fun than anything else.
Sigh. Moving on...
Digital Timer: Well I'll be. She actually has something right. Kids need concrete, not theoretical. They have no idea what five minutes means, especially if they have a highly distracted adult telling them, "Just five more minutes and then I'll get off the phone and play with you... five more... five more." This holds parents accountable as well- if you mean that you will go to the park in five minutes, you better hold yourself to it!
Poker Chips: Well why not? Let's get these little gamblers started early. Hee hee- look, she says, "I strongly believe that kids should earn their privileges (money, extra clothing and special activities) and not be given these just for existing." But Dr. Rap, in the whole smiley face, glass jar, time out, stand on your head, genuflect, cross yourself, turn around and touch the ground dealie- don't the kids get all kinds of treats for just merely existing? Technically, some waif of a kid can wake up, perform the act of eating and excreting, sit in a chair and do nothing, and win all three of their fabulous prizes, all hand-crafted by someone their own age in the People's Republic of China. Can I just say this again- WHAT parent has the time to dole out the chips and remember who gets what, who has what, and who lost what? If you're the type of parent that has all the time and memory to do this, couldn't you invest this in getting involved with your child in some type of activity that benefits the whole house, or whole family?
Clarateaches says: Involving kids in age-appropriate activities that contribute to the family as a whole is a great idea and involves little more than simply making it a part of their day from the time that they are small. Wear your baby in a sling while you vacuum, play "pick up toys" with your toddler to the beat of a catchy tune, have your preschooler stand at the sink and rinse dishes as you wash them... this is not rocket science, people. Model, model, model.
Ok, these next few take the cake. Videotape tantrums to mock them? Threaten them with sending the tape to family members?!? SHRED CDS AND DVDS IN A PAPER SHREDDER?!?!?! What are the values these are teaching children? Let's just throw money away- I don't like what you are doing, so when I don't like what you are doing, I will ruin something that belongs to you. Don't be surprised if Junior, on a rage at 16, burns the house down. And the tantrum thing- for once and for all- KIDS HAVE BIG FEELINGS. They need a safe place to let them out. If you are the type of person who drags a sleepy, hungry child to the mall for two hours in the afternoon and chats on your cell while going into and out of stores just for little old you, you deserve the whopper of a tantrum that, trust me, will happen.
Clarateaches says: Model, model, model. Do not give items just to use them as something to take away. Tantrums will happen- stay physically present, but don't hover; stay calm and for God's sake, keep your own adult mouth shut. They can't hear you, anyway. When it burns itself out, stay close and hug them- tell them that they were very angry, (scared, sad, frustrated...) and it was a big anger, and now it's all done. And move on. The more accurately you help them to describe what they are going through, the better they will cope next time. It's not permissive in the slightest. Nope, you don't cave in, they don't get to paint the dog's toenails with nailpolish after all. But, you don't make a screaming magenta baboon's ass of yourself in the whole rigamorale of capering about with a cheapo video camera, desperately thinking of all the people in your address book who can be sent your child's tantrum. Which, by the way, if you threaten it- be prepared to actually do it. Trust me on this one- no one wants to see your child's tantrum. There probably are only so many times that you can send Aunt Beatrice your child's tantrum before she starts sending you her toy poodle's droppings through media mail. Be an adult and model appropriate behavior. BY THE WAY- If you're the bright red-faced, screaming individual honking his horn at an elderly man making his way across the street while you were trying to turn right on red the other day, you pretty much have your own self to blame if Screamy the Second uses his "dog whistle voice" every time life runs contrary to what he originally imagined.
There you have it, folks. Right there is where it all goes to hell. "Why are kids so disconnected? Why can't they learn the value of their property? How come they don't value their family?" Shred their property while at the same time give them endless plastic junk just for staying under the radar. Laugh and mock their feelings during the age where they are trying to learn what the hell to do with them. Spend your day so busy trying to remember which of your three darlings has retained all of their smiley faces and which has already had two crossed out, and which time-out which one is on, so that you cannot spend any on showing them the appropriate way to behave. You, too, can have kids coked to the gills on all kinds of pharmaceuticals by the time they graduate high school. Way to "parent."
Monday, May 05, 2008
Bathliness is next to Bedliness
As un-crunchy as it might sound, I love a good routine. This is no doubt a carry-over from my days as a wide-awake teacher, just brimming with youthful sleep and energy. Back then, I planned my day to a T, and even planned in some planning time. There is nothing more satisfying than a list, other than completing that list.
Routine for many of my fellow AP style parents is sort of a four letter word. I think this is because many of the baby trainers have purloined the word "routine" and attached a sinister connotation to it (namely, that babies will fit into an adults life, even if it takes some strange and unnatural gyrations). I would like for that to change! There is a way to have a general routine while being responsive and attached and family-centered. Hats off to the moms that don't need one, and live well without one- I just can't do it! The trick is to be flexible. Teething, dogs rolling in rotten chipmunk, traveling, and the rare utility sink overflow demand that when the routine needs to be put on hold, that is just the way the ball bounces.
Round these parts, Gianna has a well scripted evening before bed. Bath, followed by the Great Diaper Chase (diapering a mobile baby should be a part of the Olympics. Cloth diapering a mobile baby, my friends), followed by Hylands Baby Crack (if teething), followed by Mr. Clarateaches' Story Time, prayers and lullabies in the glider, and then into the Pack n' Play she goes.
This child LOVES her bath. There is no other time of the day where she gets to work her pre-engineering magic the way she can in the bathtub. Forgetting the colorful toys bobbing around, she spends about 75% of her bath twisting the dial until the drain stopper rises enough to be pried out and poked into the faucet. She stoically tolerates the shampoo that releases her tresses from the cement that is banana, and does remarkably well with water being dumped over her head. She also has discovered that a washcloth is more efficient at bailing all of the water out of the tub, and onto Mommy and the floor. This experiment is repeated enough times to make sure it really does work, and it's not just a fluke.
Lola likes to wander in and peer into the tub. Her tail droops nervously, and she shifts from paw to paw, looking at me anxiously to determine if she will be thus tortured next. I assure her that she will indeed have a bath if she doesn't get her dog booty out of my way. No one has to ask her twice.
Routine for many of my fellow AP style parents is sort of a four letter word. I think this is because many of the baby trainers have purloined the word "routine" and attached a sinister connotation to it (namely, that babies will fit into an adults life, even if it takes some strange and unnatural gyrations). I would like for that to change! There is a way to have a general routine while being responsive and attached and family-centered. Hats off to the moms that don't need one, and live well without one- I just can't do it! The trick is to be flexible. Teething, dogs rolling in rotten chipmunk, traveling, and the rare utility sink overflow demand that when the routine needs to be put on hold, that is just the way the ball bounces.
Round these parts, Gianna has a well scripted evening before bed. Bath, followed by the Great Diaper Chase (diapering a mobile baby should be a part of the Olympics. Cloth diapering a mobile baby, my friends), followed by Hylands Baby Crack (if teething), followed by Mr. Clarateaches' Story Time, prayers and lullabies in the glider, and then into the Pack n' Play she goes.
This child LOVES her bath. There is no other time of the day where she gets to work her pre-engineering magic the way she can in the bathtub. Forgetting the colorful toys bobbing around, she spends about 75% of her bath twisting the dial until the drain stopper rises enough to be pried out and poked into the faucet. She stoically tolerates the shampoo that releases her tresses from the cement that is banana, and does remarkably well with water being dumped over her head. She also has discovered that a washcloth is more efficient at bailing all of the water out of the tub, and onto Mommy and the floor. This experiment is repeated enough times to make sure it really does work, and it's not just a fluke.
Lola likes to wander in and peer into the tub. Her tail droops nervously, and she shifts from paw to paw, looking at me anxiously to determine if she will be thus tortured next. I assure her that she will indeed have a bath if she doesn't get her dog booty out of my way. No one has to ask her twice.
Friday, April 25, 2008
They all rolled over, and none fell out
Attention: If you are afraid of co-sleeping, this is not the post for you.
For some reason, the hospital where we ended up bringing Gianna into the world was practically shaking and trembling in fear over co-sleeping. They had a parenting channel that would broadcast several times a day and night about how babies do best on their backs in a crib with nothing but a mattress, in a room far far away. Anything else would immediately cause them to stop breathing and die on the spot.
Granted, SIDS is no joke, and there are proper and improper ways to share a bed with a baby, just like there are proper and improper ways to have a baby sleep in a crib. No water beds, of course, and no drugs, alcohol, saggy mattresses, animals, or other booby traps. There are lots more, but somehow, Cave Clara managed to sleep with her whole family and not kill any of them. Could you imagine if they had to find another little cave for Cave Gianna?
Being as contrary and defiant as I am, I repeatedly told the hospital staff that we would use a "Co-sleeper." Confused, they just clarified to make sure that it would be not in our bed. "Not yet, No," I would answer.
Blink, blink.
So, there was no way that I was going to drag my post-surgery body all over the upstairs of the house to breastfeed this kid. In our room she stayed, and now spends half the night in her own bed, and half the night in ours. Usually Mr. Clarateaches curls up on his side with 95% of the blankets and sheets, I cling to my side, and Gianna does jumping jacks in her sleep in the middle 65% of the bed all night long. We are slowly phasing her to her own bed, but this arrangement makes it easiest for all of us to get sleep, and for me to nurse her through the night.
Here are a few things we will miss, when she is in her own bed:
- One night we accidentally left Lola outside. At 1 AM, Gianna started whining and growling and acting pretty demented. She didn't want to nurse, she didn't want to snuggle, and she for sure didn't want to open her eyes. Suddenly, I heard a muffled, "Whoof... whoof." Lola was whisper-barking outside the kitchen door. I prodded Mr. Clarateaches awake, and he went to fetch the grateful pooch. Once the dog was safely inside, Gianna fell back to sleep.
- (This is sort of immature, and teenage boy humor, but oh well) She toots in her sleep with all the forces of a grown man. One in particular, but he will remain nameless. Let's just say her other X chromosome came with some extra exhaust. The hilarious part is that she has to point both feet into the air before she can let it rip. So, she will be sleeping very adorably, with all of the adorable-ness of a cute, tiny innocent being, and then whammo- feet point to the sky, and trumpets blare. Resume cute, innocent little lamb, sound asleep.
And what I won't miss:
- Sleeping in the letter "K" position. I have to sleep so that she can have access to the chuck wagon, and also so that she doesn't accidentally go anywhere at night. In the meantime, I'm giving myself scoliosis of the spine, crunched hips, and arms that randomly go on strike or try to pop out of their sockets.
On that note, I'm going to go review "No Cry Sleep Solution" and remind myself that she will be in her own bed, and eventually in her own room soon enough. In the meantime, I will enjoy my very attached, somewhat hippie-style baby. She won't be a baby for much longer!
For some reason, the hospital where we ended up bringing Gianna into the world was practically shaking and trembling in fear over co-sleeping. They had a parenting channel that would broadcast several times a day and night about how babies do best on their backs in a crib with nothing but a mattress, in a room far far away. Anything else would immediately cause them to stop breathing and die on the spot.
Granted, SIDS is no joke, and there are proper and improper ways to share a bed with a baby, just like there are proper and improper ways to have a baby sleep in a crib. No water beds, of course, and no drugs, alcohol, saggy mattresses, animals, or other booby traps. There are lots more, but somehow, Cave Clara managed to sleep with her whole family and not kill any of them. Could you imagine if they had to find another little cave for Cave Gianna?
Being as contrary and defiant as I am, I repeatedly told the hospital staff that we would use a "Co-sleeper." Confused, they just clarified to make sure that it would be not in our bed. "Not yet, No," I would answer.
Blink, blink.
So, there was no way that I was going to drag my post-surgery body all over the upstairs of the house to breastfeed this kid. In our room she stayed, and now spends half the night in her own bed, and half the night in ours. Usually Mr. Clarateaches curls up on his side with 95% of the blankets and sheets, I cling to my side, and Gianna does jumping jacks in her sleep in the middle 65% of the bed all night long. We are slowly phasing her to her own bed, but this arrangement makes it easiest for all of us to get sleep, and for me to nurse her through the night.
Here are a few things we will miss, when she is in her own bed:
- One night we accidentally left Lola outside. At 1 AM, Gianna started whining and growling and acting pretty demented. She didn't want to nurse, she didn't want to snuggle, and she for sure didn't want to open her eyes. Suddenly, I heard a muffled, "Whoof... whoof." Lola was whisper-barking outside the kitchen door. I prodded Mr. Clarateaches awake, and he went to fetch the grateful pooch. Once the dog was safely inside, Gianna fell back to sleep.
- (This is sort of immature, and teenage boy humor, but oh well) She toots in her sleep with all the forces of a grown man. One in particular, but he will remain nameless. Let's just say her other X chromosome came with some extra exhaust. The hilarious part is that she has to point both feet into the air before she can let it rip. So, she will be sleeping very adorably, with all of the adorable-ness of a cute, tiny innocent being, and then whammo- feet point to the sky, and trumpets blare. Resume cute, innocent little lamb, sound asleep.
And what I won't miss:
- Sleeping in the letter "K" position. I have to sleep so that she can have access to the chuck wagon, and also so that she doesn't accidentally go anywhere at night. In the meantime, I'm giving myself scoliosis of the spine, crunched hips, and arms that randomly go on strike or try to pop out of their sockets.
On that note, I'm going to go review "No Cry Sleep Solution" and remind myself that she will be in her own bed, and eventually in her own room soon enough. In the meantime, I will enjoy my very attached, somewhat hippie-style baby. She won't be a baby for much longer!
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
She's a Contendah
My little bambina is a total ruffian in her quickly mastered mobility. She moves very quickly now, and climbs anything just for a chance to stand. When she's not playing with the "No-no's," (the cable outlets for who-knows-what, but we're the proud owners of a wall full of them) she's trying to reconstruct my face.
Today we went on a trip to Lowe's for Mr. Clarateaches, to return what looked like the arms of a robot. On the way into the store, we passed the garden center, which deposited a snoot-full of pollen my way, causing my eyes to well with tears. Just before we entered, Gianna Ali reared back her very hard head and smashed my lower lip into my teeth. The combined effect of a quickly swelling lip, teary eyes, and hair that hasn't seen a stylist in a good solid nine months (and is rapidly looking more and more like it is styled by The Polygamy Ranch Salon each day) was one hell of a doozy to the Customer Service people inside. They rapidly ushered through my return of the robot arms, and gladly accepted my reason for return as "entirely too wimpy."
We've been teaching her facial parts- eyes, ears, nose, and mouth. Mr. Clarateaches gets a little carried away ("Cheekbones... upper left incisor... frenulum...") but that's fine. My girl's a genius, and she can handle it. Only now Gianna gets the urge to show me that she knows "Eye" in the middle of a grocery store by poking her little chubby finger all the way into my optic nerve. Or sometimes, after giving the dog a few healthy grabs on the undercoat, she then feels the need to inspect my teeth.
Quite on her own, she's discovered Mommy's freckles. These vex the hell out of her, and whenever she's bored with her toys, she tries to pick them off. I try to dissuade her, as it makes me look like a meth addict. Thank goodness for Mr. Tea Strainer- the tea strainer that came on the top of a Tazo Chai canister- it's her favorite toy!
Onward and ever upward, we teach, "nicely..."
Today we went on a trip to Lowe's for Mr. Clarateaches, to return what looked like the arms of a robot. On the way into the store, we passed the garden center, which deposited a snoot-full of pollen my way, causing my eyes to well with tears. Just before we entered, Gianna Ali reared back her very hard head and smashed my lower lip into my teeth. The combined effect of a quickly swelling lip, teary eyes, and hair that hasn't seen a stylist in a good solid nine months (and is rapidly looking more and more like it is styled by The Polygamy Ranch Salon each day) was one hell of a doozy to the Customer Service people inside. They rapidly ushered through my return of the robot arms, and gladly accepted my reason for return as "entirely too wimpy."
We've been teaching her facial parts- eyes, ears, nose, and mouth. Mr. Clarateaches gets a little carried away ("Cheekbones... upper left incisor... frenulum...") but that's fine. My girl's a genius, and she can handle it. Only now Gianna gets the urge to show me that she knows "Eye" in the middle of a grocery store by poking her little chubby finger all the way into my optic nerve. Or sometimes, after giving the dog a few healthy grabs on the undercoat, she then feels the need to inspect my teeth.
Quite on her own, she's discovered Mommy's freckles. These vex the hell out of her, and whenever she's bored with her toys, she tries to pick them off. I try to dissuade her, as it makes me look like a meth addict. Thank goodness for Mr. Tea Strainer- the tea strainer that came on the top of a Tazo Chai canister- it's her favorite toy!
Onward and ever upward, we teach, "nicely..."
Thursday, April 10, 2008
Blurb
"Nnndah!" Little hazel eyes narrow, and a chubby little finger points down at Lola, the Dogasus supreme. "NDAH!" Lola obediently sits. Triumphant, Bambina kicks her feet from her hip-side perch and screeches like a monkey, which causes the dog to leap to her feet and bark.
Dog and baby have been diligently training one another of late, and they've got their own unique patois working. It's amusing to watch for now, even though I realize that eventually, the duo will pull off capers that I can't even begin to imagine.
Lola was an only child for just ten months when Gianna arrived, and while she probably doesn't remember the pre-baby days, I do sometimes feel sorry for her status as low man on the totem pole. Only sometimes. Then she will be the Tom Green of dogs and nose the business end of a diaper that I hadn't had a chance to rinse off, or do a celebratory Snoopy dance over bird droppings on her brick walkway, and the sorriness vanishes.
Dog and baby have been diligently training one another of late, and they've got their own unique patois working. It's amusing to watch for now, even though I realize that eventually, the duo will pull off capers that I can't even begin to imagine.
Lola was an only child for just ten months when Gianna arrived, and while she probably doesn't remember the pre-baby days, I do sometimes feel sorry for her status as low man on the totem pole. Only sometimes. Then she will be the Tom Green of dogs and nose the business end of a diaper that I hadn't had a chance to rinse off, or do a celebratory Snoopy dance over bird droppings on her brick walkway, and the sorriness vanishes.
Friday, March 28, 2008
Gustatory Fun and Games
I originally thought that the fact that Gianna is now regularly using a precise and swift pincer grasp to pick up single dog hairs, lint, and the smallest particles known to mankind (anyone? Anyone?) that she would be ready for picking up food and putting it into her mouth. Nursing is obviously no sweat for her, and eating from the spoon of pureed organic goodness that I shove her way is also fairly effortless.
Whole food experiment #1- banana. She likes it as a puree, so she'll perhaps like it as a whole piece of food. While visiting NY, her aunt broke off a piece from her banana, and handed it to her. While Gianna did get the banana to her mouth several times, her aunt likes to eat bananas just as they flip from green to yellow, and so I think the taste was a little too tart. Who knows- I think all bananas are gross. Gianna did find that banana chunks grind nicely into my shirt, and used the banana like sidewalk chalk all over the high chair tray and all over me.
Whole food experiment #2- barley teething biscuits. In general, I try to be as difficult and contrary as possible when it comes to my child. Or so they think. Dear, dear world: my use of cloth diapers and rejection of even the images of bottles has nothing to do with you. Not one thing. So soothe those bruised little emotions, and find something real to be enraged over. In the process of letting my little co-lactivist taste new foods, I had been buying real fruits and veggies and steaming and blending them on my own. This cuts out the Gerber middleman, and I don't have to fear a disgruntled factory worker putting rats or band aids into the grinder. However, I saw a box of teething biscuits, and thought we'd give them a try. Gianna banged it on the high chair and blew on it and looked at me with wide, questioning eyes as if to say, "This isn't the dog's hairbrush. It's also not a zip drive- how am I supposed to want to put it into my mouth?" The biscuit ended up going over the edge of the tray into the dog's eager jaws.
I'm not sure yet what I will try for WFE #3, but it will have to be disguised as a freshly plucked dog whisker for it to even get close to her mouth. Maybe I'll even place the food onto the dog.
Whole food experiment #1- banana. She likes it as a puree, so she'll perhaps like it as a whole piece of food. While visiting NY, her aunt broke off a piece from her banana, and handed it to her. While Gianna did get the banana to her mouth several times, her aunt likes to eat bananas just as they flip from green to yellow, and so I think the taste was a little too tart. Who knows- I think all bananas are gross. Gianna did find that banana chunks grind nicely into my shirt, and used the banana like sidewalk chalk all over the high chair tray and all over me.
Whole food experiment #2- barley teething biscuits. In general, I try to be as difficult and contrary as possible when it comes to my child. Or so they think. Dear, dear world: my use of cloth diapers and rejection of even the images of bottles has nothing to do with you. Not one thing. So soothe those bruised little emotions, and find something real to be enraged over. In the process of letting my little co-lactivist taste new foods, I had been buying real fruits and veggies and steaming and blending them on my own. This cuts out the Gerber middleman, and I don't have to fear a disgruntled factory worker putting rats or band aids into the grinder. However, I saw a box of teething biscuits, and thought we'd give them a try. Gianna banged it on the high chair and blew on it and looked at me with wide, questioning eyes as if to say, "This isn't the dog's hairbrush. It's also not a zip drive- how am I supposed to want to put it into my mouth?" The biscuit ended up going over the edge of the tray into the dog's eager jaws.
I'm not sure yet what I will try for WFE #3, but it will have to be disguised as a freshly plucked dog whisker for it to even get close to her mouth. Maybe I'll even place the food onto the dog.
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
Five For Fighting
... is donating money towards autism research and early intervention funding every time THIS VIDEO is viewed. Feel like 4 minutes of autism activism? It's as easy as clicking a button.
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
Fragile Lives, Shattered Dreams
What are we made of? What makes one child grow up to be reasonably functioning, and self-sufficient, and what makes another grow up to be a complete wreck?
By some fortuitous chance (or provincial chance, if you must) each and every teaching job I have had, save some subbing in an upscale high school, has been with kids that we can call "At Risk." "High Risk," even. These are kids who live in poverty and have lived the lives that little punk ghetto wannabes in suburbia think that they wish they were doing. Some of these kids would, in the same breath, tell me about how their cousin "got jacked up, with a knife, and Mrs. Clarateaches, the cops came," and then go on to tell me about their favorite show on the Disney channel. (Rochester, NY- during student teaching). Somehow, these sprouts would come bouncing into my room ready to play, even if they had spent more than two hours that morning kneeling on a concrete floor of their basement as a punishment for God-knows-what (south of Chicago, 2005).
Some of the kids fared worse. My selectively mute Angel-Girl from the Chicago area school faced countless issues, and simply decided to rarely speak. The world could do whatever it wanted to, but it couldn't make her speak unless she absolutely wanted to.
So, you do what you're trained to do, make the reports to the school nurse, social worker, DCFS, and carry on with your day. Have a panic attack on the way home from school and wonder what the hell you are doing in a place that is showing you just how hard it had to have been for your own teachers to make calls about your own fractured life, so many years ago. Then go back and do it all over again. The story ends happily, right? The magical wonderful ways of the Teacher sweep in and save the day, DCFS does their job, and the credits roll. It's all over- right? RIGHT?
Gobs of books and movies have been made about teachers and students and rotten home lives and how just a little hope and encouragement can boost students out of a bad situation. Everyone passes the test, wins the game, goes on to "Just Say No," and the screen fades to black. The collective public sighs a huge sigh of relief, and thanks their lucky stars that all is well. What happens next, though?
External resiliency factors are not to be taken lightly, of course. Supportive adults, community, religious organizations- these are all important in the lives of high risk children. What about the internal resiliency, though? What makes two kids in the same neighborhood, under the same single-mother-working-two-jobs, abusive-rotating-door-of-boyfriends, drugs-and-crime-everywhere circumstances grow up to have two completely different lives? What about the kids in suburbia with the facade going on- two parents, middle-class income, and unspeakable crimes going on behind closed doors- where do they end up? Especially when they are in the same classroom, have the same external resiliency factors, and are given the same opportunities?
The collective society has handed down such a twisted, convaluted message. On one hand, victims have an excuse to perpetuate the cycle of violence in their own lives, because after all, they had horrible things happen to them; and on the other hand, don't ever talk about these things happening. It's just too sad, gross, and terrible, and no one can do anything about it anyways, so can we just change the subject? Please? You can be as disturbed as you want to be, but it's okay, because you're on the Springer show, and it's fun to laugh and be scandalized. Don't worry, we'll add to the insurance kitty; go ahead and take all kinds of drugs. You are the victim, after all. It's easy to cluck our tongues and shake our heads in sorrow when we hear of children on the news suffering acts of crime that would bring an adult to their knees, but then what?
I hold my own baby girl and rock and nurse her to sleep for her nap. In her warm clothes, in her warm house. While I watch her fall asleep, I continue to be haunted by the ghosts of former students. What is my Angel Child doing now, two years later? Is her abusive step-father still in her life? What about my other ones- what are they thinking of when they fall asleep at night? Dear God, did I do enough for them, or did I do enough for me to just get through my day?
By some fortuitous chance (or provincial chance, if you must) each and every teaching job I have had, save some subbing in an upscale high school, has been with kids that we can call "At Risk." "High Risk," even. These are kids who live in poverty and have lived the lives that little punk ghetto wannabes in suburbia think that they wish they were doing. Some of these kids would, in the same breath, tell me about how their cousin "got jacked up, with a knife, and Mrs. Clarateaches, the cops came," and then go on to tell me about their favorite show on the Disney channel. (Rochester, NY- during student teaching). Somehow, these sprouts would come bouncing into my room ready to play, even if they had spent more than two hours that morning kneeling on a concrete floor of their basement as a punishment for God-knows-what (south of Chicago, 2005).
Some of the kids fared worse. My selectively mute Angel-Girl from the Chicago area school faced countless issues, and simply decided to rarely speak. The world could do whatever it wanted to, but it couldn't make her speak unless she absolutely wanted to.
So, you do what you're trained to do, make the reports to the school nurse, social worker, DCFS, and carry on with your day. Have a panic attack on the way home from school and wonder what the hell you are doing in a place that is showing you just how hard it had to have been for your own teachers to make calls about your own fractured life, so many years ago. Then go back and do it all over again. The story ends happily, right? The magical wonderful ways of the Teacher sweep in and save the day, DCFS does their job, and the credits roll. It's all over- right? RIGHT?
Gobs of books and movies have been made about teachers and students and rotten home lives and how just a little hope and encouragement can boost students out of a bad situation. Everyone passes the test, wins the game, goes on to "Just Say No," and the screen fades to black. The collective public sighs a huge sigh of relief, and thanks their lucky stars that all is well. What happens next, though?
External resiliency factors are not to be taken lightly, of course. Supportive adults, community, religious organizations- these are all important in the lives of high risk children. What about the internal resiliency, though? What makes two kids in the same neighborhood, under the same single-mother-working-two-jobs, abusive-rotating-door-of-boyfriends, drugs-and-crime-everywhere circumstances grow up to have two completely different lives? What about the kids in suburbia with the facade going on- two parents, middle-class income, and unspeakable crimes going on behind closed doors- where do they end up? Especially when they are in the same classroom, have the same external resiliency factors, and are given the same opportunities?
The collective society has handed down such a twisted, convaluted message. On one hand, victims have an excuse to perpetuate the cycle of violence in their own lives, because after all, they had horrible things happen to them; and on the other hand, don't ever talk about these things happening. It's just too sad, gross, and terrible, and no one can do anything about it anyways, so can we just change the subject? Please? You can be as disturbed as you want to be, but it's okay, because you're on the Springer show, and it's fun to laugh and be scandalized. Don't worry, we'll add to the insurance kitty; go ahead and take all kinds of drugs. You are the victim, after all. It's easy to cluck our tongues and shake our heads in sorrow when we hear of children on the news suffering acts of crime that would bring an adult to their knees, but then what?
I hold my own baby girl and rock and nurse her to sleep for her nap. In her warm clothes, in her warm house. While I watch her fall asleep, I continue to be haunted by the ghosts of former students. What is my Angel Child doing now, two years later? Is her abusive step-father still in her life? What about my other ones- what are they thinking of when they fall asleep at night? Dear God, did I do enough for them, or did I do enough for me to just get through my day?
Thursday, March 13, 2008
Tick...Tock...Tick...
From the moment one becomes pregnant, there are hills to climb. Some of these hills, like finding pants that fit, are pretty easy. Some are straight-up in the air and appear endless, like weeks of prodromal labor that turn into real labor that also lasts forever. Then, ahh. The baby is born, and life continues...
...to be hilly. When the baby arrives, all kinds of hills pop up, and some are full of raging creeks of breastfeeding issues and bracket-y thorn-patches of vaccination decisions, and the occasional student nurse that tries to rip out your Foley catheter without completely deflating the balloon.
It's a sleepless life. For mama and baby. Especially during those times when the baby is going through some sort of developmental leap. Gianna is on the very brink of crawling, and her brain is working so hard, her sleep has taken a giant step backwards. So has mine. I try to think of things in terms of primal necessity- how did this benefit Cave Clara, and Cave Gianna? Perhaps a more awake baby and more awake mama meant that Cave Gianna couldn't all of a sudden put the pieces together and learn to crawl right out of the cave in the middle of the night and hop a mountain lion and disappear into the night.
Outside of cave life, it makes for some interesting days and nights. I swear I saw Yoko Ono drive past me in a Jeep Rubicon today. It's hard to say, though, because I have mentally devolved to somewhere around a mollusk, and have myself a ripping case of aphasia. I tried to have a phone conversation today with my sister about Turbo Tax, and described it as "starry" instead of "easy." At the butcher today, I also accidentally ordered a salmon fillet in the voice I use when talking to Gianna. Which isn't baby-talk, by the way, just higher pitched and super-enunciated. I'm sure I sounded super starry.
I need to just keep putting my feet in front of me. I'm sure sixteen years from now, she will be giving me a whole new level of sleepless nights, so I better savor this while I can. Now to go figure out where the heck I am... this house is kinda nice...
...to be hilly. When the baby arrives, all kinds of hills pop up, and some are full of raging creeks of breastfeeding issues and bracket-y thorn-patches of vaccination decisions, and the occasional student nurse that tries to rip out your Foley catheter without completely deflating the balloon.
It's a sleepless life. For mama and baby. Especially during those times when the baby is going through some sort of developmental leap. Gianna is on the very brink of crawling, and her brain is working so hard, her sleep has taken a giant step backwards. So has mine. I try to think of things in terms of primal necessity- how did this benefit Cave Clara, and Cave Gianna? Perhaps a more awake baby and more awake mama meant that Cave Gianna couldn't all of a sudden put the pieces together and learn to crawl right out of the cave in the middle of the night and hop a mountain lion and disappear into the night.
Outside of cave life, it makes for some interesting days and nights. I swear I saw Yoko Ono drive past me in a Jeep Rubicon today. It's hard to say, though, because I have mentally devolved to somewhere around a mollusk, and have myself a ripping case of aphasia. I tried to have a phone conversation today with my sister about Turbo Tax, and described it as "starry" instead of "easy." At the butcher today, I also accidentally ordered a salmon fillet in the voice I use when talking to Gianna. Which isn't baby-talk, by the way, just higher pitched and super-enunciated. I'm sure I sounded super starry.
I need to just keep putting my feet in front of me. I'm sure sixteen years from now, she will be giving me a whole new level of sleepless nights, so I better savor this while I can. Now to go figure out where the heck I am... this house is kinda nice...
Monday, March 03, 2008
CT Lite
Okay, I've been pushing my agenda quite a bit in recent posts. Time for some fun!
I have some valuable advice that I hope each and every reader takes to heart. Ready?
Never, ever, EVER feed the dog leftover pureed peas. Pureed pees are excellent for the baby, but cause the dog to release toxic, pepper-spray style fumes. Repeatedly. And audibly.
In baby news, Gianna has learned to clap her hands and say, "Ayayayaye!" I don't believe in praising children for every single move they make, but it's too adorable not to join in when she flops herself back to a seated position after some push-ups and claps and grins and says, "Ayayayayaye!" In the march towards mobility, she's been training herself with the determination of a Navy Seal. Her favorite exercise is to use her hands to creep the upper part of her body forward over her legs, and try to flip her feet and legs behind her. I tried it myself, and it's pretty killer. She does this for long stretches of time, and sometimes is successful in scooting a leg or two out from underneath her. This, startling her, causes the whole operation to come to a halt, and Mom has to save the day.
The Brilliant Dogasus has some kind of weird masochism going on. She knows that the baby is working on her pincer grasp, and loves to carefully and precisely pinch small objects between her fingers and yank on them with shocking strength. Yet, she sits very close to the baby, and places her whiskers tantalizingly on the baby's leg, and then rolls her eyes back towards me, and looks pathetic.
"If you don't like it, move," I tell Dogasus. I plant myself beside them, ready to intervene.
"But, I want to smell her," replies the dog. *Snifffff* "She's pulling my whiskers! Tell her 'No!' and put her in a crate."I move Gianna's hand.
Gianna, hand poised for another attack, stares in wide-eyed fascination at the dog, who is missing her chance to move her dang bod. I put my hand over Gianna's, and nudge the dog. "MOVE!"
I have some valuable advice that I hope each and every reader takes to heart. Ready?
Never, ever, EVER feed the dog leftover pureed peas. Pureed pees are excellent for the baby, but cause the dog to release toxic, pepper-spray style fumes. Repeatedly. And audibly.
In baby news, Gianna has learned to clap her hands and say, "Ayayayaye!" I don't believe in praising children for every single move they make, but it's too adorable not to join in when she flops herself back to a seated position after some push-ups and claps and grins and says, "Ayayayayaye!" In the march towards mobility, she's been training herself with the determination of a Navy Seal. Her favorite exercise is to use her hands to creep the upper part of her body forward over her legs, and try to flip her feet and legs behind her. I tried it myself, and it's pretty killer. She does this for long stretches of time, and sometimes is successful in scooting a leg or two out from underneath her. This, startling her, causes the whole operation to come to a halt, and Mom has to save the day.
The Brilliant Dogasus has some kind of weird masochism going on. She knows that the baby is working on her pincer grasp, and loves to carefully and precisely pinch small objects between her fingers and yank on them with shocking strength. Yet, she sits very close to the baby, and places her whiskers tantalizingly on the baby's leg, and then rolls her eyes back towards me, and looks pathetic.
"If you don't like it, move," I tell Dogasus. I plant myself beside them, ready to intervene.
"But, I want to smell her," replies the dog. *Snifffff* "She's pulling my whiskers! Tell her 'No!' and put her in a crate."
Gianna, hand poised for another attack, stares in wide-eyed fascination at the dog, who is missing her chance to move her dang bod. I put my hand over Gianna's, and nudge the dog. "MOVE!"
Sigh. Finally, the dog very slowly inches away from the painful pleasure of the baby pulling out her whiskers and fur, and settles at a safe distance. Only to repeat the same process in about an hour.
Today is a mind-blowing 40 degrees Fahrenheit, so the plan is to go to the fabric store for the makings of Gianna's Spring/Summer wardrobe. I ordered (and quickly received) a cute Finnish sewing magazine with some great patterns, and now I can only pray that I can get enough time to actually do the projects. I think that if I take advantage of naps and Mr. Clarateaches, this may happen!
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
KnowledgeEducationIntelligenceWorth
Disclaimer #1- I writes what I thinks. I am formally trained as a teacher, a labor doula, and whatever you want to call someone who on a daily basis springs out of bed, attaches a cape, and spends the next 18 wakeful hours lactating/ cleaning/ changing diapers/ tormenting the dog/ fielding the press/ budgeting/ cooking/ summoning Captain Planet/ singing invented songs to the baby and dog/ and trying to boss other people around. Mainly my siblings. Who now ignore me. Where was I going with this? Oh yeah- do not quote me for any sort of term papers or medical journals- I do not have a $30,000 piece of paper that says I can officially philosophize. I do, however, have a $30,000 piece of paper that says I can give standardized tests to children, but will be sued to within an inch of my life if I give them a hug.
Disclaimer #2- While I no longer have the energy driven by the radio discussion from the previous morning, I do have the energy produced by the contempt I feel after watching A&E last night on mute with closed captioning- primarily to have a little light to see what I was doing to feed Bambina. A&E was airing some sort of show that follows around meter maids. Are they called meter maids? Meter officers? At any rate, this show and this show alone makes me weep and wail and gnash my teeth and cover my body with ashes. I live in utter fear now, knowing these yahoos are driving about.
Disclaimer #3- I may ramble. Bambina-lina is asleep, but I still need to rush, as she may wake up at any moment.
Where, oh where, oh where can I continue this line of thought? I'm not going to touch the industry issues surrounding production and importation and the arrogance in presuming that the USA can actually (snort) be the leader (Oh lordy, can I even say it) of the (chuckle) "knowledge industry." When the Math Regents passing grade in NY State is 55%... nope. Not going to go there. None of us have the time.
Farming? Nah. Another day, I will rant about genetic engineering (and as a Biology minor who actually did take classes involving this, I am slightly more prepared) and we can all talk about the issues involving the many many MANY problems with the quality of our food, the quantity of fake food that is killing so many, and the pharm industry and kookalooka crapazoid surrounding the hilariousness that is ethanol.
I think I will take this in a slightly more personal direction, and loop off of the "Almanzo" dilemma. What do we do with him? Even more importantly- it is significant that Almanzo is a "him." Males are having an outstandingly difficult time in this current era of college education. This is not just me spouting off- this is something that all corners of the educational world are finally admitting to. While we've greatly enhanced the learning opportunities for girls, we've gone right ahead and committed the crime of "robbing Peter to pay Paul" in the sense that we've had a deleterious effect on boys instead of merely enhancing the girls. As such, we have a nation chock-full of very confused young men. Now, not all young men are confused- some are successful, and feel that they've found their place and are fitting quite well. The amount of young men who finish high school and suddenly feel as though they've fallen through a trap-door into some kind of limbo where they have no place is staggering. Where my grandfather and his peers could easily leave high school and find employment in line work that would feed and clothe and house their families, their grandchildren are finding themselves at a stand-still.
Let's look at some high school graduates. Let's sort these high school grads into four categories:
Cat A- Are "college material," desire a college education, and understand their strengths and interests;
Cat B- Are "college material," do not necessarily desire a college education, and understand their strengths;
Cat C- Are not "college material," do, however, desire a college education, understand their interests and strengths;
Cat D- Are not "college material," do not desire a college education, and still understand their strengths and interests.
Cat. A is all set. They fit the criteria for entering college, and make it happen. Go them.
Cat. C is also all set. While they do not fit the criteria for entering college, they can still use their money or find the federal or state or private funding to get them there. At college, they will find something that interests them enough to limp along until graduation. After which, it will not matter- they have the degree, and can join the rest of the mooing crowd into the workforce.
Almanzo, from my sixth grade class, is Cat. B. He can certainly get into college with his grades. He will almost certainly be heavily encouraged by his school to apply for grants and loans and college applications, as college is the Thing To Do, whether he likes it or not.
As for Cat. D- we'll call this individual "Boog," after someone who was in my graduating class. This unfortunately-monikered boy was somehow still enrolled in high school when I was hired, two years into my bachelor's degree, to substitute teach at my old high school. Talk about awkward. At the time of my subbing, he was about to be aged out of the high school program anyway. He just did not have the grades, nor the desire for the grades or any other post-secondary education.
Almanzo and Boog. Boog and Almanzo. What do we do with you two? How can you enter adulthood successfully and perhaps enjoy a family as well? Importantly- who defines what "success" looks like?
Probably, if they both work hard, they can manage. It will be without the accoutrements, for sure- Buffalo Bills tickets will not be just a credit card swipe away, unless they want to spend the rest of their lives buried in debt (which a great proportion will end up doing, if you believe the money reports). Their spouses will probably have to work, whether they want to or not. Where do they fit along this "knowledge industry," though? How will the rest of the world view them- and how will they be trained to view themselves?
When we, as teachers, support the mindset that college is THE means to an end, rather than one way we can achieve our goals, where does that send the non-college crowd? When we make college abundantly accessible- what does this do for the people who do desire an ongoing education? What happens when lecture halls are filled with a mix of people who want to be there, and people who don't feel they have a choice? As our country increasingly mixes and mingles with the rest of the globe, what does this sort of graduating class do for us?
Disclaimer #2- While I no longer have the energy driven by the radio discussion from the previous morning, I do have the energy produced by the contempt I feel after watching A&E last night on mute with closed captioning- primarily to have a little light to see what I was doing to feed Bambina. A&E was airing some sort of show that follows around meter maids. Are they called meter maids? Meter officers? At any rate, this show and this show alone makes me weep and wail and gnash my teeth and cover my body with ashes. I live in utter fear now, knowing these yahoos are driving about.
Disclaimer #3- I may ramble. Bambina-lina is asleep, but I still need to rush, as she may wake up at any moment.
Where, oh where, oh where can I continue this line of thought? I'm not going to touch the industry issues surrounding production and importation and the arrogance in presuming that the USA can actually (snort) be the leader (Oh lordy, can I even say it) of the (chuckle) "knowledge industry." When the Math Regents passing grade in NY State is 55%... nope. Not going to go there. None of us have the time.
Farming? Nah. Another day, I will rant about genetic engineering (and as a Biology minor who actually did take classes involving this, I am slightly more prepared) and we can all talk about the issues involving the many many MANY problems with the quality of our food, the quantity of fake food that is killing so many, and the pharm industry and kookalooka crapazoid surrounding the hilariousness that is ethanol.
I think I will take this in a slightly more personal direction, and loop off of the "Almanzo" dilemma. What do we do with him? Even more importantly- it is significant that Almanzo is a "him." Males are having an outstandingly difficult time in this current era of college education. This is not just me spouting off- this is something that all corners of the educational world are finally admitting to. While we've greatly enhanced the learning opportunities for girls, we've gone right ahead and committed the crime of "robbing Peter to pay Paul" in the sense that we've had a deleterious effect on boys instead of merely enhancing the girls. As such, we have a nation chock-full of very confused young men. Now, not all young men are confused- some are successful, and feel that they've found their place and are fitting quite well. The amount of young men who finish high school and suddenly feel as though they've fallen through a trap-door into some kind of limbo where they have no place is staggering. Where my grandfather and his peers could easily leave high school and find employment in line work that would feed and clothe and house their families, their grandchildren are finding themselves at a stand-still.
Let's look at some high school graduates. Let's sort these high school grads into four categories:
Cat A- Are "college material," desire a college education, and understand their strengths and interests;
Cat B- Are "college material," do not necessarily desire a college education, and understand their strengths;
Cat C- Are not "college material," do, however, desire a college education, understand their interests and strengths;
Cat D- Are not "college material," do not desire a college education, and still understand their strengths and interests.
Cat. A is all set. They fit the criteria for entering college, and make it happen. Go them.
Cat. C is also all set. While they do not fit the criteria for entering college, they can still use their money or find the federal or state or private funding to get them there. At college, they will find something that interests them enough to limp along until graduation. After which, it will not matter- they have the degree, and can join the rest of the mooing crowd into the workforce.
Almanzo, from my sixth grade class, is Cat. B. He can certainly get into college with his grades. He will almost certainly be heavily encouraged by his school to apply for grants and loans and college applications, as college is the Thing To Do, whether he likes it or not.
As for Cat. D- we'll call this individual "Boog," after someone who was in my graduating class. This unfortunately-monikered boy was somehow still enrolled in high school when I was hired, two years into my bachelor's degree, to substitute teach at my old high school. Talk about awkward. At the time of my subbing, he was about to be aged out of the high school program anyway. He just did not have the grades, nor the desire for the grades or any other post-secondary education.
Almanzo and Boog. Boog and Almanzo. What do we do with you two? How can you enter adulthood successfully and perhaps enjoy a family as well? Importantly- who defines what "success" looks like?
Probably, if they both work hard, they can manage. It will be without the accoutrements, for sure- Buffalo Bills tickets will not be just a credit card swipe away, unless they want to spend the rest of their lives buried in debt (which a great proportion will end up doing, if you believe the money reports). Their spouses will probably have to work, whether they want to or not. Where do they fit along this "knowledge industry," though? How will the rest of the world view them- and how will they be trained to view themselves?
When we, as teachers, support the mindset that college is THE means to an end, rather than one way we can achieve our goals, where does that send the non-college crowd? When we make college abundantly accessible- what does this do for the people who do desire an ongoing education? What happens when lecture halls are filled with a mix of people who want to be there, and people who don't feel they have a choice? As our country increasingly mixes and mingles with the rest of the globe, what does this sort of graduating class do for us?
Monday, February 25, 2008
Scio
"...cogito, ergo sum" Descartes
This morning, I listened to a local talk radio show. The host was describing a new incentive for Michiganders to do something with themselves. A grant is available to attract talent and something "greater" to the area. During his discussion with his guest, they both referenced something called the "knowledge industry," and how the state and the nation will need to start boning up on "knowledge," as that is where we will be headed. No more will we be involved with production technology, and forget any kind of hands-on trade.
My mind traveled back through time to another lifetime ago, to when I was a wide-awake student teacher. I had a 6th grade assignment at a rural, Western NY wine country middle school as a math and science teacher. It was one heck of a jam-packed ten weeks with those kids.
We'll call the protagonist of my memory "Almanzo." Almanzo was a typical farmer's boy. He woke up in the morning, helped his parents and siblings on their farm, and then after a solid three or more hours of hard work, boarded the bus and headed to school. He worked and played with his friends, was polite to his teachers, and then headed home for more chores, homework, and whatever else 12 year old boys like to do. This was a fairly intelligent kid, although his grades were less than wonderful. He sort of blended into the background of the other 80 or so students who were temporarily in my charge.
Until the day we looked at triangulation. My lessons were NOT boring, but hands-on, minds-on innovations. In fact, I had the extreme pleasure of assisting two other sixth grade science teachers in the district in revising the quarterly science exam. I did messy, loud, and dramatic labs- we shook various gradations of rocks in a tall glass vase and watched the sediment fall, we built bridges and put them to a torture test, we fingerprinted one another to find out who "kidnapped" their regular teacher. I was inspiring them left and right, boom-boom-boom. My class was going to result in a wave of rural kids entering college in six years, and they all would rock.
An ongoing theme in my lessons was always "Ask why." I would tell them that textbooks were written and edited by grad students, and sometimes, information was stuck in just to make a book. Find out why, question, and verify sources. One day, they did just that. As I talked about triangulation, a student asked, " What is this good for? Why do we need to know this?" My answer, lost to the dredges of forgettable answers, included college. Almanzo raised his hand. "I don't want to go to college. I just want to stay here and farm. I like farming, and I'm good at it."
He stared at me, and I instantly thought of all he would miss- standing in line with a bunch of other people for warm beer pumped from a keg, eating his body weight in Top Ramen, hook-ups, break-ups, and all of the other things that the rank and file do in the name of extending adolescence. I told him to do what he loved, and that no matter what, we lived in a country where you could do what you wanted with your life. I did not tell him about government farm subsidies, the importation of foreign grains and products, and the lock-step all farmers needed to fall into with Monsanto in order to avoid being turned inside-out. I wanted him to do what he loved.
But can one do this? In the past, not everyone graduated high school. College was something that people did if they had the brains and the means. Now, college is practically mandatory if anyone has a prayer of a chance at getting a job that covers a living wage. In a sense, college has morphed into a giant Vocational-Technical institute. I didn't go to college because of a love of learning, or a hope of increasing knowledge. I went so that I could fill out all the appropriate paperwork, and gainfully employ myself out of my own small rural town. Should this be? Should universities be places where teachers, business people, social workers and the like are career-trained? What of Almanzo- do we invent a major, call it "rural studies," fill his days with classes to justify the tuition bill, and send him right back to his farm?
Ask the universities- they will say that everyone MUST HAVE a college education. Ask any Human Resources rep for any of the major companies. They are looking for college-educated individuals (to then hire, and give "Job Readiness" seminars, so that they understand that coming to work on time is not an option but a requirement, and that the prohibition of pajamas in the office is indeed NOT fascism, and so forth). Why? Oh, everyone will start off on the same foot, they will say. It will equalize. Are we not already equal? Will college ascertain this equality? Does that mean we all need to know the same things, and are thus equally certified? My Lockean stars, no. It will open people's minds, broaden their horizons and give different perspectives, they will say. I doubt anyone who has sat through classes and ingested material, which was then regurgitated onto a Scan-Tron sheet feels like they've gained any other perspective beyond that of a sponge. Those who have worked in a variety of venues, or have traveled, on the other hand, have fairly been able to see beyond their own vantage point.
The way must lie somewhere in the "via media" in a way that most recognizes and allows for personal choices and liberties. To educate without knowledge will perpetuate the current "overfed and undernourished" syndrome that pervades the country. Universities will discharge even more young men and women who suffer from a sort of Peter Pan syndrome that tells them that because they are educated, they deserve toys and giant HD TV's and Manolo Blahniks and daily fluffy lattes, and none of the responsibilities. When real life doesn't go according to their plans, and bosses get pissy when they call in sick over a hangover, or when credit card companies must have their payments for all of the fun, matching furniture in their pimped-out crib, they feel fully entitled to whine and cry and pop some fully-insured Valium to deal with the fact that everyone is out to get them.
To be continued...
This morning, I listened to a local talk radio show. The host was describing a new incentive for Michiganders to do something with themselves. A grant is available to attract talent and something "greater" to the area. During his discussion with his guest, they both referenced something called the "knowledge industry," and how the state and the nation will need to start boning up on "knowledge," as that is where we will be headed. No more will we be involved with production technology, and forget any kind of hands-on trade.
My mind traveled back through time to another lifetime ago, to when I was a wide-awake student teacher. I had a 6th grade assignment at a rural, Western NY wine country middle school as a math and science teacher. It was one heck of a jam-packed ten weeks with those kids.
We'll call the protagonist of my memory "Almanzo." Almanzo was a typical farmer's boy. He woke up in the morning, helped his parents and siblings on their farm, and then after a solid three or more hours of hard work, boarded the bus and headed to school. He worked and played with his friends, was polite to his teachers, and then headed home for more chores, homework, and whatever else 12 year old boys like to do. This was a fairly intelligent kid, although his grades were less than wonderful. He sort of blended into the background of the other 80 or so students who were temporarily in my charge.
Until the day we looked at triangulation. My lessons were NOT boring, but hands-on, minds-on innovations. In fact, I had the extreme pleasure of assisting two other sixth grade science teachers in the district in revising the quarterly science exam. I did messy, loud, and dramatic labs- we shook various gradations of rocks in a tall glass vase and watched the sediment fall, we built bridges and put them to a torture test, we fingerprinted one another to find out who "kidnapped" their regular teacher. I was inspiring them left and right, boom-boom-boom. My class was going to result in a wave of rural kids entering college in six years, and they all would rock.
An ongoing theme in my lessons was always "Ask why." I would tell them that textbooks were written and edited by grad students, and sometimes, information was stuck in just to make a book. Find out why, question, and verify sources. One day, they did just that. As I talked about triangulation, a student asked, " What is this good for? Why do we need to know this?" My answer, lost to the dredges of forgettable answers, included college. Almanzo raised his hand. "I don't want to go to college. I just want to stay here and farm. I like farming, and I'm good at it."
He stared at me, and I instantly thought of all he would miss- standing in line with a bunch of other people for warm beer pumped from a keg, eating his body weight in Top Ramen, hook-ups, break-ups, and all of the other things that the rank and file do in the name of extending adolescence. I told him to do what he loved, and that no matter what, we lived in a country where you could do what you wanted with your life. I did not tell him about government farm subsidies, the importation of foreign grains and products, and the lock-step all farmers needed to fall into with Monsanto in order to avoid being turned inside-out. I wanted him to do what he loved.
But can one do this? In the past, not everyone graduated high school. College was something that people did if they had the brains and the means. Now, college is practically mandatory if anyone has a prayer of a chance at getting a job that covers a living wage. In a sense, college has morphed into a giant Vocational-Technical institute. I didn't go to college because of a love of learning, or a hope of increasing knowledge. I went so that I could fill out all the appropriate paperwork, and gainfully employ myself out of my own small rural town. Should this be? Should universities be places where teachers, business people, social workers and the like are career-trained? What of Almanzo- do we invent a major, call it "rural studies," fill his days with classes to justify the tuition bill, and send him right back to his farm?
Ask the universities- they will say that everyone MUST HAVE a college education. Ask any Human Resources rep for any of the major companies. They are looking for college-educated individuals (to then hire, and give "Job Readiness" seminars, so that they understand that coming to work on time is not an option but a requirement, and that the prohibition of pajamas in the office is indeed NOT fascism, and so forth). Why? Oh, everyone will start off on the same foot, they will say. It will equalize. Are we not already equal? Will college ascertain this equality? Does that mean we all need to know the same things, and are thus equally certified? My Lockean stars, no. It will open people's minds, broaden their horizons and give different perspectives, they will say. I doubt anyone who has sat through classes and ingested material, which was then regurgitated onto a Scan-Tron sheet feels like they've gained any other perspective beyond that of a sponge. Those who have worked in a variety of venues, or have traveled, on the other hand, have fairly been able to see beyond their own vantage point.
The way must lie somewhere in the "via media" in a way that most recognizes and allows for personal choices and liberties. To educate without knowledge will perpetuate the current "overfed and undernourished" syndrome that pervades the country. Universities will discharge even more young men and women who suffer from a sort of Peter Pan syndrome that tells them that because they are educated, they deserve toys and giant HD TV's and Manolo Blahniks and daily fluffy lattes, and none of the responsibilities. When real life doesn't go according to their plans, and bosses get pissy when they call in sick over a hangover, or when credit card companies must have their payments for all of the fun, matching furniture in their pimped-out crib, they feel fully entitled to whine and cry and pop some fully-insured Valium to deal with the fact that everyone is out to get them.
To be continued...
Friday, February 08, 2008
Bacillus Aroundus
Ah, germs. Back when I was teaching, I did several lessons on handwashing, germs, sickness, and anything else that could possibly induce compulsive handwashing in small children. You would too, if approximately 70% of your audience at any given time had their fingers in their noses. I heart kindergartners. I need to open my own academy.
Fast forward to the present. It's about zero degrees, and I despise the delicate balance of feeding, changing, bundling, and re-changing the baby just to get out and go somewhere, so the only time we actually escape is to retrieve food, and observe Michiganders in their natural habitat. Mr. Clarateaches is really the only one bringing foreign germs into the home.
Now, Mr. Clarateaches is an engineer, so it's not like he even interacts with a lot of people to begin with. As I've explained before, the brain fog rolls in and my eyes glaze over if he ever tries to explain what exactly he does, but the magical world of make-believe fills in the blanks. I imagine a large, cubicle-filled building with shiny corridors. And people in lab coats, standing and joking around a water cooler, telling the one about "101111001, 1010111, 10001101!" And all the rest of the engineers laughing adenoidally. Perhaps some taped-together glasses are involved. Oh, and whiteboards are everywhere, with lots of equations on them. And once in a while, one of the engineers will put dots in the middle of a couple of zeros to be hilarious, and the adenoidal laughter continues. They are a jokey bunch, these engineers. Nothing's more hilarious than a pair of boobs. Or, what they imagine boobs to look like.
So, someone with a child must have had a social interaction with my husband, because he came home with some sort of illness. It wasn't a very nice one, and during the evening, I decided to go to the store for some meds. Mr. Clarateaches is more apt to reach for the meds, instead of traveling my route of what he perceives as burning sage and chanting. After digging out my car, and packing up the perturbed baby, we headed into the night. I must not have purchased medicine in a while, because I had no idea that you get carded for Nyquil now. I can see suspicion involved if someone tries to buy a case at a time, but I am dying to know how I can MacGyver some meth out of a single bottle of Nyquil, some oranges, and the chocolate that was going to be the manna to get me through the night. I'm pretty sure I looked suspicious, too- wild hair, wearing a hands-y baby that was trying to give me a hickey, and a pair of jeans that had seen many infant excretions that day. Which had been lovingly licked by Lola, the Tom Green of dogs.
Fortunately, I was in the Express, Self-Service line that was manned by a truly pissed off teenage girl. When the screen flashed "Show Associate ID," she was able to simultaneously approve the transaction, signal to me that it was okay to proceed (by flashing me the middle finger), and continue to dream about how she was SO leaving this place, as soon as she could save enough money.
Wash your hands. Every germy, slimy one of ya. Stay AWAY from that so-called "Anti-bacterial" hand gel, hot soapy water is so much better than rubbing "hand sanitizer" on.
Fast forward to the present. It's about zero degrees, and I despise the delicate balance of feeding, changing, bundling, and re-changing the baby just to get out and go somewhere, so the only time we actually escape is to retrieve food, and observe Michiganders in their natural habitat. Mr. Clarateaches is really the only one bringing foreign germs into the home.
Now, Mr. Clarateaches is an engineer, so it's not like he even interacts with a lot of people to begin with. As I've explained before, the brain fog rolls in and my eyes glaze over if he ever tries to explain what exactly he does, but the magical world of make-believe fills in the blanks. I imagine a large, cubicle-filled building with shiny corridors. And people in lab coats, standing and joking around a water cooler, telling the one about "101111001, 1010111, 10001101!" And all the rest of the engineers laughing adenoidally. Perhaps some taped-together glasses are involved. Oh, and whiteboards are everywhere, with lots of equations on them. And once in a while, one of the engineers will put dots in the middle of a couple of zeros to be hilarious, and the adenoidal laughter continues. They are a jokey bunch, these engineers. Nothing's more hilarious than a pair of boobs. Or, what they imagine boobs to look like.
So, someone with a child must have had a social interaction with my husband, because he came home with some sort of illness. It wasn't a very nice one, and during the evening, I decided to go to the store for some meds. Mr. Clarateaches is more apt to reach for the meds, instead of traveling my route of what he perceives as burning sage and chanting. After digging out my car, and packing up the perturbed baby, we headed into the night. I must not have purchased medicine in a while, because I had no idea that you get carded for Nyquil now. I can see suspicion involved if someone tries to buy a case at a time, but I am dying to know how I can MacGyver some meth out of a single bottle of Nyquil, some oranges, and the chocolate that was going to be the manna to get me through the night. I'm pretty sure I looked suspicious, too- wild hair, wearing a hands-y baby that was trying to give me a hickey, and a pair of jeans that had seen many infant excretions that day. Which had been lovingly licked by Lola, the Tom Green of dogs.
Fortunately, I was in the Express, Self-Service line that was manned by a truly pissed off teenage girl. When the screen flashed "Show Associate ID," she was able to simultaneously approve the transaction, signal to me that it was okay to proceed (by flashing me the middle finger), and continue to dream about how she was SO leaving this place, as soon as she could save enough money.
Wash your hands. Every germy, slimy one of ya. Stay AWAY from that so-called "Anti-bacterial" hand gel, hot soapy water is so much better than rubbing "hand sanitizer" on.
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