Anyone who knows me well knows of my love for Hot Tamales (the candy, not the actual Mexican food). My love of these yummy little treats has inspired my son to redesign the Hot Tamale box just for me as a Christmas present (a very fun, unique stocking stuffer, I might add--and just in case you're wondering Hot Tamales do in fact taste excellent at 7:30am as you are opening your Christmas presents), prompted friends to serve dishes of them as appetizers as well as desserts at our get togethers, and compelled my best friend to bestow upon me packages of them at random times just because she knows it'll make me smile. That's an awesome best friend, by the way, who will surprise you with your favorite candy for no reason other than she knows it'll make your day!
A few days ago, as I was standing in line at the grocery store, I spontaneously threw a pack into my cart to munch on the ride home (I know, never shop when you're hungry, but frankly that advice isn't applicable in this case, because I will eat Hot Tamales whether I am hungry or not-- they are THAT good!). I loaded my bags into the back seat, and sat down in the driver's seat to enjoy a little bit of heaven. I opened the bag (changing the packaging to a bag instead of the decades-old box was, in my opinion, a terrible mistake--Hot Tamales make this very satisfying sound when you shake the box, and when you slide them out of the box; no such luck with the new bag wrapper. Thankfully, they did not change the "movie size" packaging, so I guess I'll just have to start buying the bigger boxes gosh darnit...).
Anyway, so there I was sitting in my car with the bag ripped open and a few candies in my palm, and I realized that just the smell of the Hot Tamales made me smile. And I paused. Because I couldn't really think of any other candy that makes me smile like that. And I wanted to figure out what it was that was triggering the big stupid grin on my face.
It didn't take long.
Movies. I never really realized it before, but I associate Hot Tamales with going to the movies. When I was younger (much, much younger, like say high school), when I went to the movies I always got Hot Tamales. Always. None of that nasty Good n' Plenty, not Mike n' Ikes (a blatant rip-off of the Hot Tamales in my opinion), not Dots (what the hell kind of candy was that anyway?), not Raisinettes (really, raisins in your movie candy?). Hot Tamales. Always.
I do love to go to the movies still--love the smell of the popcorn, love getting engrossed in the stories. I do occasionally still get a big box of Hot Tamales when I'm at the movies (and I will state for the record that I think if you're going to put a bunch of candy in a box, the serving size should be the whole box. I don't care if the nutrition information says it's three servings. I'm not sharing. And I'm certainly not saving any for later).
But there was more to it than just movies. I can't name you any particular movies I saw when I was a teen that really impacted me. No, it was more about the memories of going to the movies than it was actually watching any particular show. Here's why:
When I was in high school, I shared a lot of the same friends with my older brother. We ran in the same crowd, so to speak. We took some of the same classes, both ran on the cross-country team, belonged to a lot of the same clubs. We even worked at the same store (I miss the Bagel Bin and those yummy bagels covered in salt).
And our group of friends went to the movies together. And sitting in my car, I realized that I think I love Hot Tamales so much because every time I open a bag or a box of them, my senses immediately take me back to hanging out with my big brother and remembering how much fun we had together. I can picture the lobby of the Dublin Cinema with its maroon swirly carpet. I can see the ticketing line. I can even envision the little black board with the white letters that told the ticket prices-- and I believe they were somewhere around .75 cents for a student. Wow. It's now $9.00. That's a whole other blog entry that won't have nearly the happy, nostalgic feel that this one does for me.
I guess that's what my Hot Tamale fancy is-- just a happy, nostalgic reminiscence of a carefree time in life when I palled around with my big bro, no cares in the world.
It got me to thinking about other foods that cause that same visceral reaction. I came up with a few:
Butter Rum Lifesavers: more happy childhood memories
Peppermint Lifesavers: actually, it was Cryst-O-Mint at the time, but they don't make those anymore. Peppermint Lifesavers will still cause me to remember the smell of Pop Pop's wooly sweater (my grandfather).
Reed's Cinnamon or Root Beer candies: haven't had these in a while now, but they always reminded me of going to the symphony with my parents because my mom always had them in her purse.
Hostess HoHo's: immediately takes me back to sitting in the back of my best friend's mom's van and eating entire boxes of them in one sitting--good times!
Grapefruit Soda: Hansen's makes a nice grapefruit soda that makes me feel like I'm a little kid again, standing in the kitchen of our first house on Bonita Avenue and stealing a little swig out of the green bottle of Cragmont Grapefruit Soda.
Sourdough bread with a hunk of cheddar cheese and some salami, washed down with a full-sugar can of Dr. Pepper : this is perhaps my favorite thing to eat of all time (although I do the diet Dr. Pepper these days) and I know exactly why. I have so many memories of going to Carmel with my family, and each time we went we would go to the deli up on the corner of Ocean Avenue, the Mediterranean Market, and each of us kids would get to pick out a can of soda to go with the picnic lunch my parents would get. We would take all the food out to Point Lobos Park, and we would sit on the rocks and eat bread and cheese while watching the sea otters in the surf. I remember going there with my family, with Gaga (my grandmother), and with my great aunt and uncle at various times. And always the same lunch. It just makes me smile thinking about it.
I'm starting to see a pattern emerge here. Perhaps I need to reassess my eating habits. Maybe I need to dig a bit deeper and see if I can find some amazing childhood memory involving broccoli or apples.
But you know what? Memories are a big part of who you are, and you will never convince me that bread, cheese and salami are anything but good for me!
Thursday, April 7, 2011
Thursday, March 17, 2011
Explaining the Inexplicable
I've been thinking a lot lately about being pregnant. Not actually about wanting to be pregnant (someone revive Dave). More about when I was pregnant, and the giant expanse of future that lay before our growing little family at the time.
It was fun to imagine all the possibilities that lay ahead--everything from quiet nights rocking a crying baby in the middle of the night (which is much more picturesque when you are just picturing it and not actually living it night after sleepless night) to trips to Disneyland and rides on the Matterhorn (which in my idyllic world would not have been closed for renovations when we took our kids to the Magic Kingdom).
While I was pregnant, I had lots of time to anticipate all of these Kodak moments because it's darn hard to sleep when there is a small human being reclining on your bladder 24/7. And it got harder and harder to get a good night's sleep the closer I got to my due date, 'cause now that small human being who was nestled on top of my organs was closing in on nine pounds. I recall friends and family advising me that losing sleep before you give birth is nature's way of preparing you for the months ahead of interrupted slumber. So sleep deprivation before the birth, as far as I could tell from what I was being told, was supposed to help me get used to being ridiculously exhausted, which in turn was going to help me be a better parent because I will be used to functioning in a state of ridiculous exhaustion when the baby comes. Because that's how we want our new parents, right? Confused, terrified, newly responsible for another human being's every need, and delirious from lack of sleep.
But it turns out they were right. Those long, sleepless night truly did sort of prep me for what lay ahead. Who would have thought?
Seemingly inexplicable things, in hindsight, are much more explicable once you can see the big picture. That's my theory, and I'm sticking to it.
So I was a new mom, and as it turns out, I could get by on five hours of sleep (which were not continuous, but divided up into 45-60 minute intervals). I was young and enthusiastic and could not be happier to be starting a family, and I was used to not sleeping very much and still getting things done. Good job, Mother Nature! You get a "10" for preparedness.
This no-sleep phase passed, of course. Steven began sleeping through the night, and even Olivia finally made it through her colicky period and we all began to get some much needed rest.
And although I did not see it at the time, that makes perfect sense in hindsight, doesn't it? Yes, it does, and let me explain why. Because right about the time our kids finally slept through the night, thus also allowing US to sleep through the night, they became mobile.
They rolled. They scooched. They crawled. They walked. They were gettin' around.
And I had to keep up with them. I needed that rest that I was finally getting. I needed every single minute of that continuous sleep to keep up with my kids. Mother Nature would have gotten a big high-five from me if she would have added a few hours to each night so I could grab just a bit more of that shut-eye.
I know, I know. It doesn't seem like it would be that hard to keep up with toddlers. But here's the thing: I could not take my eyes off of them--ever! Not because they were so darn cute (which they were and still are), but because if I did, there was this whole world of things they could get into because they were no longer stationary. Baby-proofing only goes so far. Toddler mobility=Parental exhaustion. That's my math skills at their very best right there with that equation!
Here's my proof to support that mathematical equality: when they were babies, I could sit them in their bouncy seat for an hour and cook dinner. I could put them into the playpen and make a marketing list. They would sleep in their cribs for an hour or two during the day. But once they hit toddlerdom (remember, I like to make up words?), the kids didn't take kindly to being contained or still. Their curiosity kicked in. They wanted to explore. They got a kick out of climbing onto things they could fall off of. They were partial to putting things other than food into their mouths (I, at one point, seriously wondered if CPS would be showing up as I had called the "anonymous" Poison Control Hotline three times in a two week period). During their waking hours, they never, ever stopped moving. And I am here to tell you that nothing will both bring on and require a good night's sleep like a day spent hanging with the 2-4 year old set. Again, job well done Mother Nature! Perfect timing on your part with that whole sleep thing. The kids were so pooped at the end of the day (as was I) that they slept soundly, which allowed me to sleep soundly as well.
And then the kids got older still. And while now everyone was sleeping just fine, thank you very much, there did not seem to be enough hours in the day for me to actually get our house clean, plus I was exhausted at the end of each day from the swirl of activity generated by the kids. Sure, the kids were independent enough to sit at the kitchen table and do some fun crafts (word to the wise: glitter is your enemy), but they weren't quite old enough to clean up after themselves, or make themselves a quick sandwich, or play a game together without mediation--you get the idea. So while I would clean up one activity and make a snack, they would head off to do something else (code for "make another mess for mom to clean up"). No rest for the weary. And certainly not a lot of spare time to mop those floors. Would my house ever get clean? Yes. It would. Because the kids would go to school. I can't thank Mother Nature for that one, of course. But I do feel pretty sure that many years ago, there was a mother somewhere, with a couple of four to five year olds, who said to her husband, "Hey, honey, if you'd ever again like to see clean floors and me naked, you better think of some way to entertain these kids for a few hours every day." And thus preschool was born.
That's right. I am now convinced, looking back and finally being able to see the big picture, that kids going to preschool, while being completely unnecessary in the academic sense, is the sole contributing factor to moms being able to finally get their floors mopped and their lingerie out of mothballs. Those precious few hours were invaluable. I had some time to myself, and it really was a feeling of accomplishment to unload my dishwasher completely, instead of one dish at a time as I needed them. It felt good to actually put the clean laundry away--I was beginning to think that my kids would grow up thinking that the laundry room was actually a giant walk-in closet. And hey--not being so tired I was ready to cry every night was much more romantic... Preschool came at just the right time!
Parenting is hard, though. A few hours a day never seemed enough time to get everything done that needed to be done. Plus, now my kids were getting older, and at that age when they were mobile, vocal, and cognitive. Steven wanted to know WHY? Why does the sun shine? Why is the sky blue? Why does the ocean have waves? Why is there so much sand? And Olivia was right there with him. She was Robin to his Batman. It was wonderful to see, but mentally tiring. No longer were car rides what I'd call relaxing. They were now non-stop question and answer sessions. Dinner time was endless conversation, with down time provided during chewing and swallowing. Now don't get me wrong--I loved that my kids were curious, and both Dave and I were happy to answer their questions. But man, it was, here's that word again, exhausting. Preschool was great, but the time flew by so quickly. What could help me quench their undying, unending curiosity? What could possibly save me from going completely insane?
Elementary school. All day. Five days in a row. Again, no thanks to Mother Nature, but a lifesaver none-the-less. Curious, intelligent kids are fantastic, but I needed some help with the never-ending spirit of inquiry my kids possessed. Plus, in addition to school providing them with constant challenge, it was also, at least for the first few years, like having a playdate with their friends every day (but I didn't have to clean up after all twenty of them! Yay me!).
Now, kids going off to school is a double-edged sword. Again, I didn't see it at the time--all I could see looming was a bit of long-forgotten freedom for myself. At first, just the mere thought of the kids both being in school each day made me giddy with excitement over what I might be able to accomplish. Once both the kids were in elementary school, I thought I had it made. Sure, I cried that first day as I sat at my kitchen table, all by myself. It was a bit lonely. That day. And then I rebounded. I had time to not only clean the house, I could grocery shop BY MYSELF, go for a run, watch the noon news while I ate lunch, even occasionally meet a girlfriend for coffee.
As time passed, though, I realized something was missing. What was it? House clean? As clean as I'm going to get it. Quick run to get a bit of exercise? Check. Groceries in the cupboard? Got 'em. An occasional (shut up, whoever just snorted) episode of Days of Our Lives while I ate lunch? Very nice. Hmmmm..... what was that little feeling nagging away at me? What was absent?
Turns out it was the kids. I did not see that coming. Yep. Those same kids that I had been so anxious to schlep off to school so that I could have a moment to myself--turns out I didn't quite know what to do with myself for seven hours a day. So I did what all moms do: I worked in my children's classrooms. I volunteered at the school library. I went to some PTA meetings. I worked at the school "spring fling". I went on countless fieldtrips. I filled that giant expanse of free time that I had longed for so desperately right back up--and I filled it up with those same kids who had originally made me crave that giant expanse of free time! How's that for coming full circle?
I didn't see it at the time. I see it now. Every little part of life, no matter how ridiculous it seems to you at the time, does its part to prepare you for something yet to come.
Right now, I'm thinking about how my teenagers can drive me absolutely batty, what with their eye-rolls and their harumphs and their seeming inability to pick clothing up off the floor of their rooms. Truly, some days, they make me crazy. And I think this may have to be a blog entry all on its own as events unfold, but my current theory is that teens unwittingly develop these behaviors (again, a tip of the hat to Mother Nature), which culminate precisely at the moment of high school graduation, at which time we parents have been driven so off our rockers that we are compelled to send them off to college to go drive their professors crazy for a little while.
Now, I'm not quite there yet. And truthfully, as insane as the kids may make me at times, I can burst into tears just watching a car with "Seniors, Class of 2011" painted on its windows for homecoming drive by me. The thought of me eagerly anticipating the kids leaving home is beyond my comprehension at this moment. Just can't imagine it.
But I know things happen for a reason. Remember those sleepless nights I recounted at the opening of this little discourse? They're back, with a vengeance. No, I'm not pregnant. But my fifteen year old son IS about to get his driver's license... think that may have anything to do with it?
It was fun to imagine all the possibilities that lay ahead--everything from quiet nights rocking a crying baby in the middle of the night (which is much more picturesque when you are just picturing it and not actually living it night after sleepless night) to trips to Disneyland and rides on the Matterhorn (which in my idyllic world would not have been closed for renovations when we took our kids to the Magic Kingdom).
While I was pregnant, I had lots of time to anticipate all of these Kodak moments because it's darn hard to sleep when there is a small human being reclining on your bladder 24/7. And it got harder and harder to get a good night's sleep the closer I got to my due date, 'cause now that small human being who was nestled on top of my organs was closing in on nine pounds. I recall friends and family advising me that losing sleep before you give birth is nature's way of preparing you for the months ahead of interrupted slumber. So sleep deprivation before the birth, as far as I could tell from what I was being told, was supposed to help me get used to being ridiculously exhausted, which in turn was going to help me be a better parent because I will be used to functioning in a state of ridiculous exhaustion when the baby comes. Because that's how we want our new parents, right? Confused, terrified, newly responsible for another human being's every need, and delirious from lack of sleep.
But it turns out they were right. Those long, sleepless night truly did sort of prep me for what lay ahead. Who would have thought?
Seemingly inexplicable things, in hindsight, are much more explicable once you can see the big picture. That's my theory, and I'm sticking to it.
So I was a new mom, and as it turns out, I could get by on five hours of sleep (which were not continuous, but divided up into 45-60 minute intervals). I was young and enthusiastic and could not be happier to be starting a family, and I was used to not sleeping very much and still getting things done. Good job, Mother Nature! You get a "10" for preparedness.
This no-sleep phase passed, of course. Steven began sleeping through the night, and even Olivia finally made it through her colicky period and we all began to get some much needed rest.
And although I did not see it at the time, that makes perfect sense in hindsight, doesn't it? Yes, it does, and let me explain why. Because right about the time our kids finally slept through the night, thus also allowing US to sleep through the night, they became mobile.
They rolled. They scooched. They crawled. They walked. They were gettin' around.
And I had to keep up with them. I needed that rest that I was finally getting. I needed every single minute of that continuous sleep to keep up with my kids. Mother Nature would have gotten a big high-five from me if she would have added a few hours to each night so I could grab just a bit more of that shut-eye.
I know, I know. It doesn't seem like it would be that hard to keep up with toddlers. But here's the thing: I could not take my eyes off of them--ever! Not because they were so darn cute (which they were and still are), but because if I did, there was this whole world of things they could get into because they were no longer stationary. Baby-proofing only goes so far. Toddler mobility=Parental exhaustion. That's my math skills at their very best right there with that equation!
Here's my proof to support that mathematical equality: when they were babies, I could sit them in their bouncy seat for an hour and cook dinner. I could put them into the playpen and make a marketing list. They would sleep in their cribs for an hour or two during the day. But once they hit toddlerdom (remember, I like to make up words?), the kids didn't take kindly to being contained or still. Their curiosity kicked in. They wanted to explore. They got a kick out of climbing onto things they could fall off of. They were partial to putting things other than food into their mouths (I, at one point, seriously wondered if CPS would be showing up as I had called the "anonymous" Poison Control Hotline three times in a two week period). During their waking hours, they never, ever stopped moving. And I am here to tell you that nothing will both bring on and require a good night's sleep like a day spent hanging with the 2-4 year old set. Again, job well done Mother Nature! Perfect timing on your part with that whole sleep thing. The kids were so pooped at the end of the day (as was I) that they slept soundly, which allowed me to sleep soundly as well.
And then the kids got older still. And while now everyone was sleeping just fine, thank you very much, there did not seem to be enough hours in the day for me to actually get our house clean, plus I was exhausted at the end of each day from the swirl of activity generated by the kids. Sure, the kids were independent enough to sit at the kitchen table and do some fun crafts (word to the wise: glitter is your enemy), but they weren't quite old enough to clean up after themselves, or make themselves a quick sandwich, or play a game together without mediation--you get the idea. So while I would clean up one activity and make a snack, they would head off to do something else (code for "make another mess for mom to clean up"). No rest for the weary. And certainly not a lot of spare time to mop those floors. Would my house ever get clean? Yes. It would. Because the kids would go to school. I can't thank Mother Nature for that one, of course. But I do feel pretty sure that many years ago, there was a mother somewhere, with a couple of four to five year olds, who said to her husband, "Hey, honey, if you'd ever again like to see clean floors and me naked, you better think of some way to entertain these kids for a few hours every day." And thus preschool was born.
That's right. I am now convinced, looking back and finally being able to see the big picture, that kids going to preschool, while being completely unnecessary in the academic sense, is the sole contributing factor to moms being able to finally get their floors mopped and their lingerie out of mothballs. Those precious few hours were invaluable. I had some time to myself, and it really was a feeling of accomplishment to unload my dishwasher completely, instead of one dish at a time as I needed them. It felt good to actually put the clean laundry away--I was beginning to think that my kids would grow up thinking that the laundry room was actually a giant walk-in closet. And hey--not being so tired I was ready to cry every night was much more romantic... Preschool came at just the right time!
Parenting is hard, though. A few hours a day never seemed enough time to get everything done that needed to be done. Plus, now my kids were getting older, and at that age when they were mobile, vocal, and cognitive. Steven wanted to know WHY? Why does the sun shine? Why is the sky blue? Why does the ocean have waves? Why is there so much sand? And Olivia was right there with him. She was Robin to his Batman. It was wonderful to see, but mentally tiring. No longer were car rides what I'd call relaxing. They were now non-stop question and answer sessions. Dinner time was endless conversation, with down time provided during chewing and swallowing. Now don't get me wrong--I loved that my kids were curious, and both Dave and I were happy to answer their questions. But man, it was, here's that word again, exhausting. Preschool was great, but the time flew by so quickly. What could help me quench their undying, unending curiosity? What could possibly save me from going completely insane?
Elementary school. All day. Five days in a row. Again, no thanks to Mother Nature, but a lifesaver none-the-less. Curious, intelligent kids are fantastic, but I needed some help with the never-ending spirit of inquiry my kids possessed. Plus, in addition to school providing them with constant challenge, it was also, at least for the first few years, like having a playdate with their friends every day (but I didn't have to clean up after all twenty of them! Yay me!).
Now, kids going off to school is a double-edged sword. Again, I didn't see it at the time--all I could see looming was a bit of long-forgotten freedom for myself. At first, just the mere thought of the kids both being in school each day made me giddy with excitement over what I might be able to accomplish. Once both the kids were in elementary school, I thought I had it made. Sure, I cried that first day as I sat at my kitchen table, all by myself. It was a bit lonely. That day. And then I rebounded. I had time to not only clean the house, I could grocery shop BY MYSELF, go for a run, watch the noon news while I ate lunch, even occasionally meet a girlfriend for coffee.
As time passed, though, I realized something was missing. What was it? House clean? As clean as I'm going to get it. Quick run to get a bit of exercise? Check. Groceries in the cupboard? Got 'em. An occasional (shut up, whoever just snorted) episode of Days of Our Lives while I ate lunch? Very nice. Hmmmm..... what was that little feeling nagging away at me? What was absent?
Turns out it was the kids. I did not see that coming. Yep. Those same kids that I had been so anxious to schlep off to school so that I could have a moment to myself--turns out I didn't quite know what to do with myself for seven hours a day. So I did what all moms do: I worked in my children's classrooms. I volunteered at the school library. I went to some PTA meetings. I worked at the school "spring fling". I went on countless fieldtrips. I filled that giant expanse of free time that I had longed for so desperately right back up--and I filled it up with those same kids who had originally made me crave that giant expanse of free time! How's that for coming full circle?
I didn't see it at the time. I see it now. Every little part of life, no matter how ridiculous it seems to you at the time, does its part to prepare you for something yet to come.
Right now, I'm thinking about how my teenagers can drive me absolutely batty, what with their eye-rolls and their harumphs and their seeming inability to pick clothing up off the floor of their rooms. Truly, some days, they make me crazy. And I think this may have to be a blog entry all on its own as events unfold, but my current theory is that teens unwittingly develop these behaviors (again, a tip of the hat to Mother Nature), which culminate precisely at the moment of high school graduation, at which time we parents have been driven so off our rockers that we are compelled to send them off to college to go drive their professors crazy for a little while.
Now, I'm not quite there yet. And truthfully, as insane as the kids may make me at times, I can burst into tears just watching a car with "Seniors, Class of 2011" painted on its windows for homecoming drive by me. The thought of me eagerly anticipating the kids leaving home is beyond my comprehension at this moment. Just can't imagine it.
But I know things happen for a reason. Remember those sleepless nights I recounted at the opening of this little discourse? They're back, with a vengeance. No, I'm not pregnant. But my fifteen year old son IS about to get his driver's license... think that may have anything to do with it?
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
Subbing
You know what the single most important thing is to having a good day when you are a substitute teacher? Go ahead and take a few guesses. I’m pretty sure you won’t get it. Long lunch? Nope. No “rainy day indoor recess”? Not it. Helpful colleagues? That’s nice, but not the answer. A fool proof lesson plan? So close, but still not correct.
Okay, here it is. The single most important thing to having a good day as a sub is… a seating chart. That’s right. A plain old seating chart. It doesn’t have to be fancy. It doesn’t have to be neat and tidy. It doesn’t have to be to-scale. Sure, grading programs can usually spit out diagrams that have all the little boxes/desks lined up perfectly and names are neatly typed inside each one. Fantastic. But if your grading program doesn’t do that, or if it does do that but you don’t know HOW to make it do that, if you just plain old don’t want to LEARN how to make it do that, or even god forbid if you do not use a grading program so you have no access to this option, may I let you in on a little secret?
We subs do not care about your technological prowess or lack thereof. We simply want to be able to know who is in the class and where they are in the classroom. There are a number of reasons, as I’m sure you can imagine, why it is advantageous to know a child’s name, as well as where that child sits. Let me spell some of them out for you.
As a guest teacher in a classroom, I begin the day at a disadvantage. I do not know the routine. I do not know the personalities. Students are well aware of this, and even the nicest of kids will alter their behavior somewhat with a sub in the room. Side note: when I was in eighth grade, I was one of those "nicest of kids" (if I do say so myself). And yet when we had a sub in history one day, I so much wanted to sit by one of my friends that I traded desks with another kid in the class--a guy no less--and proceeded to watch as that kid had to confess to the sub that, yes, it is hard being a boy named Kim, and no, he wasn't aware that Kim was a much more common boy's name in England. It all worked out--we weren't discovered. But still, you see my point that having a sub in the room changes things a bit from the norm. Okay, anyway, back to the topic at hand.
As a sub, I’m pretty good at setting out my rules and expectations from the get-go. I begin the day somewhat stern and serious as I want the class to know that I am in charge and will remain so throughout the entire day. But I will say that after I’ve let the students know I expect them to raise their hands if they have something to say, it doesn’t sound very stern or serious to say to a student who has just blurted out a response, “You, girl in the back row with the Tinkerbell shirt and the pink scrunchy in your hair, what’s your name?” Try a few of your own—it’s like a Mad Lib. Say them out loud, as if you're talking to a student—see how authoritative you sound.
As a sub, I’m pretty good at setting out my rules and expectations from the get-go. I begin the day somewhat stern and serious as I want the class to know that I am in charge and will remain so throughout the entire day. But I will say that after I’ve let the students know I expect them to raise their hands if they have something to say, it doesn’t sound very stern or serious to say to a student who has just blurted out a response, “You, girl in the back row with the Tinkerbell shirt and the pink scrunchy in your hair, what’s your name?” Try a few of your own—it’s like a Mad Lib. Say them out loud, as if you're talking to a student—see how authoritative you sound.
You, young lady/young man
___________ (location preposition, i.c. near, under, on, next to, beside, beneath)
the ___________ (piece of furniture in the classroom)
with the ___________ (popular cartoon or TV character) t-shirt,
and the ____________ (color)
_______________ (accessory)
on your _________________ (body part corresponding to above chosen accessory),
please raise your hand and wait to be called on before you answer.
Really, try a few of these. Mix it up a little. Say it loudly while maintaining a direct stare.
Really, try a few of these. Mix it up a little. Say it loudly while maintaining a direct stare.
A seating chart would dramatically change the impact of the above exchange.
Try the same thing, but insert a child's first name and omit everything else except the last line.
Try the same thing, but insert a child's first name and omit everything else except the last line.
“Joe, please raise your hand and wait to be called on before you answer.”
Much better, thank you very much.
It's not, I don't think, a lot to ask. But you'd be amazed how many teachers do not think to leave a seating chart when they are gone. They will leave detailed lesson plans. They will explain at great length how the kids should line up for recess (line leaders first, groups with the highest point in descending order next, kids with check marks next to their names last, etc..). Really, that's a lot of detail for recess line-up (and not at all out of the ordinary, by the way). May I gently suggest to you, absent teacher, that you reallocate your time to dashing off a quick seating chart for me instead of filling me in on which order the kids should line up to leave the room?
And one final plea for seating charts: I like to compliment kids who are hard-working and on-task. It really takes the "oomph" out of giving kudos to a student when you can't give them the compliment directly. "Hey, Sarah, thanks so much for having all your supplies out and being ready to begin math. Great job! And thank you also to Justin, Jose, and Lori for being on top of things... " sounds so, so much better than, "Hey, thank you to this guy, and that girl, and that girl, and this guy over here for being ready to go."
So, again, to recap, best possible thing I can find on the desk of the teacher whose room I'm about to commandeer for the next seven hours? Seating chart!
And just in case you're wondering, worst possible thing I can find on the desk of the teacher whose room I'm about to commandeer for the next seven hours? Bags of candy. Bags of candy means you think, no you EXPECT, that I'm going to have to bribe your kids to be good. And that ALWAYS means you've already told the kids that bribery is the plan. Not super high expectations of your students, or your sub for that matter. I am not a fan of candy as a discipline plan. Kids know how to work that one. In their little heads, when the teacher says, "And I'm leaving treats if you're good...", what they hear is "And I'm leaving treats if you can convince the sub that you should get them..." Big, big difference. I expect kids to behave well, not "good enough for a treat".
I can make it work for me, though. IF (big IF here) IF you leave me the seating chart with the candy. That seating chart is crucial to my ability to establish a rapport with the students, which in turn might just allow me to not actually have to use the candy at all in the end run.
So teachers everywhere, I implore you: make a seating chart RIGHT NOW! Scribble it out on a piece of recycled scratch paper, and tuck it in the top drawer of your desk. The next time you have to make out a sub plan, paper clip it to the back. I guarantee your sub will appreciate it--and you might even end up with candy left over as a little treat for you!
Much better, thank you very much.
It's not, I don't think, a lot to ask. But you'd be amazed how many teachers do not think to leave a seating chart when they are gone. They will leave detailed lesson plans. They will explain at great length how the kids should line up for recess (line leaders first, groups with the highest point in descending order next, kids with check marks next to their names last, etc..). Really, that's a lot of detail for recess line-up (and not at all out of the ordinary, by the way). May I gently suggest to you, absent teacher, that you reallocate your time to dashing off a quick seating chart for me instead of filling me in on which order the kids should line up to leave the room?
And one final plea for seating charts: I like to compliment kids who are hard-working and on-task. It really takes the "oomph" out of giving kudos to a student when you can't give them the compliment directly. "Hey, Sarah, thanks so much for having all your supplies out and being ready to begin math. Great job! And thank you also to Justin, Jose, and Lori for being on top of things... " sounds so, so much better than, "Hey, thank you to this guy, and that girl, and that girl, and this guy over here for being ready to go."
So, again, to recap, best possible thing I can find on the desk of the teacher whose room I'm about to commandeer for the next seven hours? Seating chart!
And just in case you're wondering, worst possible thing I can find on the desk of the teacher whose room I'm about to commandeer for the next seven hours? Bags of candy. Bags of candy means you think, no you EXPECT, that I'm going to have to bribe your kids to be good. And that ALWAYS means you've already told the kids that bribery is the plan. Not super high expectations of your students, or your sub for that matter. I am not a fan of candy as a discipline plan. Kids know how to work that one. In their little heads, when the teacher says, "And I'm leaving treats if you're good...", what they hear is "And I'm leaving treats if you can convince the sub that you should get them..." Big, big difference. I expect kids to behave well, not "good enough for a treat".
I can make it work for me, though. IF (big IF here) IF you leave me the seating chart with the candy. That seating chart is crucial to my ability to establish a rapport with the students, which in turn might just allow me to not actually have to use the candy at all in the end run.
So teachers everywhere, I implore you: make a seating chart RIGHT NOW! Scribble it out on a piece of recycled scratch paper, and tuck it in the top drawer of your desk. The next time you have to make out a sub plan, paper clip it to the back. I guarantee your sub will appreciate it--and you might even end up with candy left over as a little treat for you!
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Evolution
My kids are smarter than me.
They are fourteen (almost) and fifteen years old. And they are decidedly, absolutely, unarguably smarter than me. Here's how I know:
I can no longer help either of my children with their math homework. In truth, I had a hard time helping my son with his homework when he was in sixth grade and trying to teach himself algebra. We got him a tutor, and that tutor was well worth the money. That tutor saved me from having to say, over and over again, "Well, sweetie, I'm not quite sure how to do that one. Is it an odd number, so you can look at the answer in the back of the book?" Proud parenting moment #214: teaching your child that math books provide you with the answers to every other problem if only you know where to look.
Steven is currently in Calculus AB. I never made it past Algebra 2, and quite frankly didn't do super great in that class. One afternoon he was explaining some mind-blowing concept to me--something about a point on a graph disappearing but still being there, or getting infinitesimally smaller forever. He was kind of excited about the idea (in a way only someone who actually understood what he was talking about can be). At first I was really trying to understand what he was saying. It quickly became clear that wasn't going to happen. So then I was trying to just follow what he was saying. Nope, lost that battle. So then I was just trying to maintain the facade that I was understanding. And then that degenerated into me just nodding my head vigorously and saying "uh huh" a lot so he at least knew I was listening. That was all that was left for me to do at that point, just listen. Even just doing that made my head feel like it was going to explode. The kid is flippin' smart.
My eighth grade daughter is now in geometry, and working hard for her A, which she has maintained all year. I took geometry (in the tenth grade), and I'm here to tell you that this is NOT the same geometry that I took. I have no idea how something based on numbers and angles and invented by ancient Greeks could have possibly changed over the last twenty-five years, but it seriously has. I have no idea how to do the proofs that she does. If I had been placed in the class that she is taking when I was her age (or any age thereafter), that would have been the end of my mathematical education (it didn't last much longer anyway). Yet she can spend hours reasoning out these equations that are pages long. Even if I had the smarts to do that, I'm not sure I would have the patience. She's got it all over me on both counts.
Another way I know that my kids are smarter than me is when they expect an answer from me when they ask questions like, "Mom, in MLA format, would that be situational or dramatic irony?"
Huh?
First of all, I have no idea what MLA stands for. I can tell you what SLA stood for, I can tell you what MLB stands for. MLA? No idea.
As for situational vs. dramatic irony, what's the difference? In my day (oh, my god, did I just think that?) there was just irony. Again, how did something as timeless as irony change in the last couple of decades?
Both Steven and Olivia far surpass me in more than just intellectual smartness. Watching them on the computer makes me feel like a dinosaur. It's not that I can't do things on our Mac. I can. I can word process. I can Google things. I can make a playlist on iTunes. I can even create a blog. But I'm telling you, my kids can do things that never would have occurred to me were possible.
Yesterday, I was asking Steven for Christmas ideas. We were browsing a website that he likes because they have hundreds of t-shirts. Every time he would point one out that he liked, I would go up to the URL and copy it, and then paste it onto an email that I was going to send to my mom. Silly me. You can simply grab whatever icon is at the left of the URL and drag the whole thing onto your desk top, or into your open email. Who knew? Not me. Never would have guessed. How do you find out things like that? How did he know to do that?
Just last week, I was about to buy a song on iTunes. Olivia happened to be watching me, and told me not to buy it because she already had the song. She then proceeded, in about eight clicks, to open her iTunes, open my iTunes, click open song libraries, drag the song from one place to another, and BINGO! Her song was now my song, and I did not have to pay an additional $1.29 for it. I realize that this isn't that complicated a procedure. Nor is it that new a feature--song sharing between libraries. I just cannot remember how to do it. I will admit, a little embarrassingly, that I have, in fact, actually paid the $1.29 for a song that I really, really wanted (and that I knew one of them had already purchased) when the kids weren't home to conduct the transfer for me.
I realized the full force of my kids' surpassing intelligence (and simultaneously felt archaic and anachronistic) when I watched them operate their cell phones for the first time. I swear, they never touched the instruction manual (got that from me!). Yet they knew how to turn the phone on, how to enter addresses and phone numbers, how to assign ring tones, how to download ring tones, how to send and retrieve email, how to get to camera mode, and how to sync up their music and photos. They did most of that in the first ten minutes of having their own cell phone for the first time. It's taken me years of owning the iPhone, the most user-friendly, intuitive device ever invented, to figure some of that stuff out. My kids do not have iPhones. Their phones are, in my estimation, neither user-friendly nor intuitive, so much so that I have been unsuccessful just trying to answer their phones. How do they know how to do that stuff? Is phone technology part of their generation's DNA?
So there you have it. I cannot even manage to answer my own childrens' phones. I don't understand their math or their Language Arts. They run circles around me on the computer.
I'm okay with my kids being smarter than me. It makes me happy that they've eclipsed my IQ (although if they could have waited until they were past the age of 12 to do it I might feel a little better about myself). Just like you want your kids to succeed more than you did, you also want them to be smarter than you are. Mission accomplished.
Knowing how brilliant they are, I think it's only a matter of time before they figure out what the big chest of drawers in their rooms are for. Or what the chute that leads to the cupboard right above the washing machine is designed for. Or why that long, silver bar is hanging on the bathroom wall. Or what those plastic triangles hanging in their closets are there for. Or that if you pull on that handle on the dishwasher, it actually opens up, and you can put things inside...
They are fourteen (almost) and fifteen years old. And they are decidedly, absolutely, unarguably smarter than me. Here's how I know:
I can no longer help either of my children with their math homework. In truth, I had a hard time helping my son with his homework when he was in sixth grade and trying to teach himself algebra. We got him a tutor, and that tutor was well worth the money. That tutor saved me from having to say, over and over again, "Well, sweetie, I'm not quite sure how to do that one. Is it an odd number, so you can look at the answer in the back of the book?" Proud parenting moment #214: teaching your child that math books provide you with the answers to every other problem if only you know where to look.
Steven is currently in Calculus AB. I never made it past Algebra 2, and quite frankly didn't do super great in that class. One afternoon he was explaining some mind-blowing concept to me--something about a point on a graph disappearing but still being there, or getting infinitesimally smaller forever. He was kind of excited about the idea (in a way only someone who actually understood what he was talking about can be). At first I was really trying to understand what he was saying. It quickly became clear that wasn't going to happen. So then I was trying to just follow what he was saying. Nope, lost that battle. So then I was just trying to maintain the facade that I was understanding. And then that degenerated into me just nodding my head vigorously and saying "uh huh" a lot so he at least knew I was listening. That was all that was left for me to do at that point, just listen. Even just doing that made my head feel like it was going to explode. The kid is flippin' smart.
My eighth grade daughter is now in geometry, and working hard for her A, which she has maintained all year. I took geometry (in the tenth grade), and I'm here to tell you that this is NOT the same geometry that I took. I have no idea how something based on numbers and angles and invented by ancient Greeks could have possibly changed over the last twenty-five years, but it seriously has. I have no idea how to do the proofs that she does. If I had been placed in the class that she is taking when I was her age (or any age thereafter), that would have been the end of my mathematical education (it didn't last much longer anyway). Yet she can spend hours reasoning out these equations that are pages long. Even if I had the smarts to do that, I'm not sure I would have the patience. She's got it all over me on both counts.
Another way I know that my kids are smarter than me is when they expect an answer from me when they ask questions like, "Mom, in MLA format, would that be situational or dramatic irony?"
Huh?
First of all, I have no idea what MLA stands for. I can tell you what SLA stood for, I can tell you what MLB stands for. MLA? No idea.
As for situational vs. dramatic irony, what's the difference? In my day (oh, my god, did I just think that?) there was just irony. Again, how did something as timeless as irony change in the last couple of decades?
Both Steven and Olivia far surpass me in more than just intellectual smartness. Watching them on the computer makes me feel like a dinosaur. It's not that I can't do things on our Mac. I can. I can word process. I can Google things. I can make a playlist on iTunes. I can even create a blog. But I'm telling you, my kids can do things that never would have occurred to me were possible.
Yesterday, I was asking Steven for Christmas ideas. We were browsing a website that he likes because they have hundreds of t-shirts. Every time he would point one out that he liked, I would go up to the URL and copy it, and then paste it onto an email that I was going to send to my mom. Silly me. You can simply grab whatever icon is at the left of the URL and drag the whole thing onto your desk top, or into your open email. Who knew? Not me. Never would have guessed. How do you find out things like that? How did he know to do that?
Just last week, I was about to buy a song on iTunes. Olivia happened to be watching me, and told me not to buy it because she already had the song. She then proceeded, in about eight clicks, to open her iTunes, open my iTunes, click open song libraries, drag the song from one place to another, and BINGO! Her song was now my song, and I did not have to pay an additional $1.29 for it. I realize that this isn't that complicated a procedure. Nor is it that new a feature--song sharing between libraries. I just cannot remember how to do it. I will admit, a little embarrassingly, that I have, in fact, actually paid the $1.29 for a song that I really, really wanted (and that I knew one of them had already purchased) when the kids weren't home to conduct the transfer for me.
I realized the full force of my kids' surpassing intelligence (and simultaneously felt archaic and anachronistic) when I watched them operate their cell phones for the first time. I swear, they never touched the instruction manual (got that from me!). Yet they knew how to turn the phone on, how to enter addresses and phone numbers, how to assign ring tones, how to download ring tones, how to send and retrieve email, how to get to camera mode, and how to sync up their music and photos. They did most of that in the first ten minutes of having their own cell phone for the first time. It's taken me years of owning the iPhone, the most user-friendly, intuitive device ever invented, to figure some of that stuff out. My kids do not have iPhones. Their phones are, in my estimation, neither user-friendly nor intuitive, so much so that I have been unsuccessful just trying to answer their phones. How do they know how to do that stuff? Is phone technology part of their generation's DNA?
So there you have it. I cannot even manage to answer my own childrens' phones. I don't understand their math or their Language Arts. They run circles around me on the computer.
I'm okay with my kids being smarter than me. It makes me happy that they've eclipsed my IQ (although if they could have waited until they were past the age of 12 to do it I might feel a little better about myself). Just like you want your kids to succeed more than you did, you also want them to be smarter than you are. Mission accomplished.
Knowing how brilliant they are, I think it's only a matter of time before they figure out what the big chest of drawers in their rooms are for. Or what the chute that leads to the cupboard right above the washing machine is designed for. Or why that long, silver bar is hanging on the bathroom wall. Or what those plastic triangles hanging in their closets are there for. Or that if you pull on that handle on the dishwasher, it actually opens up, and you can put things inside...
Friday, November 26, 2010
Vacations Together
This one's for you, Dave! Happy Thanksgiving Break!
The last couple of times I've been working on this blog, when my husband walks by, he's asked if I'm writing about him. Specifically, he asked if I was writing the "Oh, My God, I'm Only On Day Two Of My Nine Day Vacation With My Husband And I Want To Kill Him" entry. I was not writing that, nor, actually, had it even occurred to me to write that. But it did get me thinking.
My husband is a teacher. So his vacations consist of either one week off (Thanksgiving, Spring Break), two weeks off (Christmas), or eight weeks off (summer). One week off is almost nothing (not that I'm complaining, mind you). It's just not enough time to do much. In fact, by the time he actually gets relaxed and can sleep past his normal alarm-clock induced waking time of 4:30am, which takes a few days, it's then time to ramp back up and prepare to go back to work. One week is not enough time to fully relax.
Now, two weeks (or eight weeks) is another matter entirely. When Christmas and summer breaks begin, Dave likes to announce their arrival as he walks through our door with the words, "Kids, there's a new sheriff in town!" This is as much, I think, a proclamation to me as it is to our two teenagers.
You see, when Dave is working, things run the way I run them. It's not because I'm bossy or controlling (I don't think). It's more out of necessity. I'm the one home the most, so I set the schedule. He's busy earning a living and supporting our family, and I'm busy trying to make sure things run smoothly. By smoothly, I mean there's groceries in the fridge, homework gets done, the house is decent, teenagers get where they need to go, dinner's on the table each night, the kids are happy (or content, depending on the mood), and we don't run out of coffee. So that's MY definition of 'running smoothly'.
And Dave does not ever complain. He's never been a complainer. Also, he's so busy when he's working that I think he's very appreciative of my efforts to get things done that need to be done, regardless of how I get them done. He will gladly contribute to the effort in any way I ask, again without complaint, but is also demonstrably grateful when he can come home from a long day at work and not have to take charge of the running of the household.
When Dave is home for an extended period of time, however, we occasionally run into what I shall delicately call a 'difference in approach' on some issues.
A recap: re-read my definition of 'running smoothly' above.
Dave's definition of "running smoothly": groceries in the fridge are not past the printed due dates on their labels and if we need to have a 'scavenge night' for dinner, there is more than just tortillas and cheddar cheese with which to compose the meal; homework gets done by a reasonable hour (as defined by a parent, not a teenager), and 'done' does not mean the 'easy stuff' is left to do while eating breakfast; the kitchen table gets wiped down thoroughly with 409 every night after dinner and the sink gets rinsed out after the kids do the dishes; teenagers try to find a ride at least one way to all of the school and extraneous activities that they like to tell us about at the last minute; Kraft Mac n' Cheese is available in the pantry for Steven to make for himself and his sister if we want to go out to dinner just the two of us (the fact that Steven is in charge of the Mac n' Cheese is another blog); the kids are alive, and if not happy, well, damn it, give them a few hours--they'll get over it; we do not run out of coffee--ever.
Now, neither of our definitions of 'running smoothly' are bad or wrong. Our definitions just happen to suit our individual personalities. We have different personalities. Hence, the difference of opinion on certain things.
Dave is, as I said earlier, a teacher. He is used to setting goals, making lesson plans, and being in charge of getting large groups of teenagers to get things done. He is and always has been a person who appreciates order, efficiency, and expediency. And neatness. As an example, when we take a road trip somewhere new, the first thing Dave will do when he gets into my car is clean up any garbage that might be on the floor between the driver and passenger seat. He'll ask if everyone has everything they might need (like jackets, iPods, etc...), and then he'll check to see that we have directions to where we are going--actual directions, either printed on paper or typed into the Mapquest app on my phone.
I used to be a teacher, too. A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away. Setting goals, making lessons, and being in charge of lots of teens was also part of my job. However, our paths diverged, and remain so, when we hit the order and expediency and efficiency parts. And the neatness part. Back to the above example: the first thing I do when I get into the car is see if there's any candy in the little 'car organizer' that's jammed between the two front seats. Hot Tamales, amazingly, are still good a week after you've opened the box and then forgotten about them. I assume everyone has what they need, and invariably double-back when one of the kids realizes he/she forgot his/her phone or shoes or race number (yeah, I'm talking to you, Steven). As for directions, my favorite phrase when we head out on a little excursion is, "I can get us there!" And I always do. Just not necessarily in the most expedient or efficient manner.
But you know what? Even though we approach things differently, it seems to work. It's not an 'opposites attract' thing, because we truly are not even close to being opposites. We are more like the melody and the harmony of a song. Both perform their own unique function, both sound good on their own, but when you put them together, it's just better.
My way works great most of the time, but I must admit that sometimes having the kids do the dishes, wipe down the table, go to bed not stressed out over incomplete assignments, and going to dinner with just my husband is really, really nice. Being the sheriff is a great job, and I wouldn't trade it for the world, but I'm happy to occasionally hand over my tin star (for no less than two weeks and no greater than eight weeks).
The last couple of times I've been working on this blog, when my husband walks by, he's asked if I'm writing about him. Specifically, he asked if I was writing the "Oh, My God, I'm Only On Day Two Of My Nine Day Vacation With My Husband And I Want To Kill Him" entry. I was not writing that, nor, actually, had it even occurred to me to write that. But it did get me thinking.
My husband is a teacher. So his vacations consist of either one week off (Thanksgiving, Spring Break), two weeks off (Christmas), or eight weeks off (summer). One week off is almost nothing (not that I'm complaining, mind you). It's just not enough time to do much. In fact, by the time he actually gets relaxed and can sleep past his normal alarm-clock induced waking time of 4:30am, which takes a few days, it's then time to ramp back up and prepare to go back to work. One week is not enough time to fully relax.
Now, two weeks (or eight weeks) is another matter entirely. When Christmas and summer breaks begin, Dave likes to announce their arrival as he walks through our door with the words, "Kids, there's a new sheriff in town!" This is as much, I think, a proclamation to me as it is to our two teenagers.
You see, when Dave is working, things run the way I run them. It's not because I'm bossy or controlling (I don't think). It's more out of necessity. I'm the one home the most, so I set the schedule. He's busy earning a living and supporting our family, and I'm busy trying to make sure things run smoothly. By smoothly, I mean there's groceries in the fridge, homework gets done, the house is decent, teenagers get where they need to go, dinner's on the table each night, the kids are happy (or content, depending on the mood), and we don't run out of coffee. So that's MY definition of 'running smoothly'.
And Dave does not ever complain. He's never been a complainer. Also, he's so busy when he's working that I think he's very appreciative of my efforts to get things done that need to be done, regardless of how I get them done. He will gladly contribute to the effort in any way I ask, again without complaint, but is also demonstrably grateful when he can come home from a long day at work and not have to take charge of the running of the household.
When Dave is home for an extended period of time, however, we occasionally run into what I shall delicately call a 'difference in approach' on some issues.
A recap: re-read my definition of 'running smoothly' above.
Dave's definition of "running smoothly": groceries in the fridge are not past the printed due dates on their labels and if we need to have a 'scavenge night' for dinner, there is more than just tortillas and cheddar cheese with which to compose the meal; homework gets done by a reasonable hour (as defined by a parent, not a teenager), and 'done' does not mean the 'easy stuff' is left to do while eating breakfast; the kitchen table gets wiped down thoroughly with 409 every night after dinner and the sink gets rinsed out after the kids do the dishes; teenagers try to find a ride at least one way to all of the school and extraneous activities that they like to tell us about at the last minute; Kraft Mac n' Cheese is available in the pantry for Steven to make for himself and his sister if we want to go out to dinner just the two of us (the fact that Steven is in charge of the Mac n' Cheese is another blog); the kids are alive, and if not happy, well, damn it, give them a few hours--they'll get over it; we do not run out of coffee--ever.
Now, neither of our definitions of 'running smoothly' are bad or wrong. Our definitions just happen to suit our individual personalities. We have different personalities. Hence, the difference of opinion on certain things.
Dave is, as I said earlier, a teacher. He is used to setting goals, making lesson plans, and being in charge of getting large groups of teenagers to get things done. He is and always has been a person who appreciates order, efficiency, and expediency. And neatness. As an example, when we take a road trip somewhere new, the first thing Dave will do when he gets into my car is clean up any garbage that might be on the floor between the driver and passenger seat. He'll ask if everyone has everything they might need (like jackets, iPods, etc...), and then he'll check to see that we have directions to where we are going--actual directions, either printed on paper or typed into the Mapquest app on my phone.
I used to be a teacher, too. A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away. Setting goals, making lessons, and being in charge of lots of teens was also part of my job. However, our paths diverged, and remain so, when we hit the order and expediency and efficiency parts. And the neatness part. Back to the above example: the first thing I do when I get into the car is see if there's any candy in the little 'car organizer' that's jammed between the two front seats. Hot Tamales, amazingly, are still good a week after you've opened the box and then forgotten about them. I assume everyone has what they need, and invariably double-back when one of the kids realizes he/she forgot his/her phone or shoes or race number (yeah, I'm talking to you, Steven). As for directions, my favorite phrase when we head out on a little excursion is, "I can get us there!" And I always do. Just not necessarily in the most expedient or efficient manner.
But you know what? Even though we approach things differently, it seems to work. It's not an 'opposites attract' thing, because we truly are not even close to being opposites. We are more like the melody and the harmony of a song. Both perform their own unique function, both sound good on their own, but when you put them together, it's just better.
My way works great most of the time, but I must admit that sometimes having the kids do the dishes, wipe down the table, go to bed not stressed out over incomplete assignments, and going to dinner with just my husband is really, really nice. Being the sheriff is a great job, and I wouldn't trade it for the world, but I'm happy to occasionally hand over my tin star (for no less than two weeks and no greater than eight weeks).
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
Noises
I've been thinking about noises lately. No, let me rephrase that. I've been listening to noises lately. There are a lot of them, a wide range of sounds from soft to loud, harmonious to incongruous, inviting to unpleasant. But the noises I've been most intent on, the ones that I seem to hear more than any others, are the ones that come from me. Now before you say to yourself, "Ew, gross," and click over to Facebook to check and see if anyone has commented on your latest post, I am not talking about bodily noises. Per se. More about the noises that I utter in response to the aches and pains my now-over 40 year old body has developed in the last several years. Whoever first uttered the phrase "40 is the new 30" was clearly trying to boost her self-esteem and had no real idea what she was in for. And she absolutely had not turned 40 yet.
But before I get to the noises, a brief rant about turning 40:
I absolutely remember my parents each turning 40. I even remember our neighbor turning 40 (but really, I only remember that because there was a pizza with 40 written on it in pepperoni, and I thought that was a really cool idea at the time). It seemed like such an old age at the time. Ancient. If you asked me now, at my present age of 44, to describe to you what my parents looked like when THEY were 40, I would recollect that they looked SO MUCH OLDER at that age than I do now. And yet when I go back and look at photos of me at thirteen and my parents at 40 and 43 respectively, they in fact look quite young. Why do I not remember them that way in my mind? How do my kids see me?
It's funny (not ha ha funny; more ironic funny). You hear about "turning 40" your whole life, or at least you register it as a huge event from the point that age is of any significance to you. After the Sweet 16 party, there's not much else of note until you turn 40 (okay, 21 is noteworthy, but truly not many people actually remember that one after the fact, so I'm not counting it). And then BAM, 40 hits (for all of you that hold at 39, you're not fooling anyone) and all the sudden instead of looking forward to your birthday, you're supposed to dread it. Instead of asking for the first and biggest slice of your favorite flavor of cake (Lady Lord from the Holiday Snack Bar in Beach Haven, New Jersey thank you very much), you request a thin slice with no ice cream. Calories getting harder to burn off. Do you get 40 candles on your cake? No you do not. You get either a giant "4" candle and a giant "0" candle, or you get a few candles in the shape of a 40. Or one symbolic candle. People wear black armbands to your party. They buy plates with "Over the Hill" emblazoned in black writing on them for god's sake. In what I think is the most back-handed compliment-disguised as an insult ever conceived, you all the sudden get compared to fine bottles of wine.
What's so terrible about turning 40, I always wondered before I turned 40 (ok, that's not entirely true--I thought turning 40 meant the end of youth and fun and freedom up until I was about 34; then, when faced with the prospect of turning 40 in the not-so-distant future, I conveniently started wondering what the big deal would be, as I clearly would be the youngest-seeming/looking 40 year old EVER). What's the big deal? It's a number. It doesn't define you. It's not like some anti-Peter-Pan fairy swoops down on you at 40 and sprinkles you with "now you're old" dust.
I mocked people who were afraid of 40. I mocked people who were over 40 and talked about it like it was some sort of life-altering change.
Until I actually turned 40. Okay, I get it now.
As it turns out, there may be some correlation between that "over the hill" thing and 40.
Things began to happen. Not giant things. And not all at once. But little things. My shoulder all the sudden began to hurt, and I couldn't move it a certain way. My back ached a bit when I got up in the morning. My running pace slowed down (see previous blog to get the full impact of just how slow I now must be going). It got harder to lose a pound or two. My right knee began to hurt if I ran more than seven miles (lucky for me, this didn't occur too terribly often). I had trouble getting to sleep some nights. I began to think that 2pm naps sounded like an idea whose time had arrived. I couldn't hear as well. I began talking to myself--out loud ("Okay, keys, I know you're here. If I were my keys, where would I be? Got back from the store, put away the groceries... hmmm... walked over to the sink..."). You get the idea.
All the sudden, I felt old. Not older, just plain old.
Which brings me back to the noises.
When I get up in the morning, I make this "uuuhhh" noise as I get out of bed because my back is so stiff.
When I bend down to pick up the wet towel that has been left on my daughter's floor (that's a whole other blog, by the way, soon to come) an audible groan escapes me.
When I get up off the couch, I have been known to say something akin to "oofff".
Still talking to myself, still out loud.
There's a whole list of maladies and noises that I am compiling. And all of them have developed in the last couple of years, since I turned 40.
So I would like to take this opportunity to formally apologize to my parents.
I'm sorry, Mom, that I could not understand why you liked to take a nap in the afternoons when I was a teenager, and that I thought it wasn't fair that when we went camping you got to have a cot or a pad under your sleeping bag while the rest of us slept on the ground. A sore back (likely brought on by doing so many things for all of us, for which we probably never said proper thank you's), I now understand, requires special pampering.
I'm sorry, Dad, that we (and by we, I'm implicating both my brothers) thought it was funny that you could fall asleep anywhere, anytime, and occasionally we might have tried to wake you up to amuse ourselves. I truly wish I had that talent now--falling asleep anywhere, anytime. Being able to get good sleep makes for a happy, content person, which you always were and still are. And even though we (again, implicating the siblings) poked fun at you not hearing what was going on around you, I think that two out of three of us REALLY understand that situation at this point in our lives. Thanks for always being such a great sport.
I get it now. I really do. And lest I forget to note them, there are certainly some upsides to being in my 40's. I have finally learned how to take ibuprofen for maximum effectiveness (thank you, honey, for your patience with that one--sooner or later I'll actually follow through). I have thighs of steel (from bending at the knees to save my back). My kids are now old enough to do some of the literal heavy lifting that I can no longer do because it hurts my back. My son will very soon be old enough to do some of the chauffeuring duties--he will be able to drive himself to school, pick up his sister, take her to dance class, whiz by the store for some ingredient I forgot for dinner, and pick up milkshakes late at night when we all get a sweet tooth. And of course I can't forget that amidst all the aches and pains and noises, there's not much I truly cannot do, so I'm grateful for that.
I'm using my new-found understanding of this decade of my life to look forward, to anticipate the realities (read: pains) and joys of turning 50. I'm ready to embrace the AARP, the senior discount, medicaid (if it's still around) and the early-bird special.
And, I recently heard that 50 is the new 40, so I'll have that going for me!
But before I get to the noises, a brief rant about turning 40:
I absolutely remember my parents each turning 40. I even remember our neighbor turning 40 (but really, I only remember that because there was a pizza with 40 written on it in pepperoni, and I thought that was a really cool idea at the time). It seemed like such an old age at the time. Ancient. If you asked me now, at my present age of 44, to describe to you what my parents looked like when THEY were 40, I would recollect that they looked SO MUCH OLDER at that age than I do now. And yet when I go back and look at photos of me at thirteen and my parents at 40 and 43 respectively, they in fact look quite young. Why do I not remember them that way in my mind? How do my kids see me?
It's funny (not ha ha funny; more ironic funny). You hear about "turning 40" your whole life, or at least you register it as a huge event from the point that age is of any significance to you. After the Sweet 16 party, there's not much else of note until you turn 40 (okay, 21 is noteworthy, but truly not many people actually remember that one after the fact, so I'm not counting it). And then BAM, 40 hits (for all of you that hold at 39, you're not fooling anyone) and all the sudden instead of looking forward to your birthday, you're supposed to dread it. Instead of asking for the first and biggest slice of your favorite flavor of cake (Lady Lord from the Holiday Snack Bar in Beach Haven, New Jersey thank you very much), you request a thin slice with no ice cream. Calories getting harder to burn off. Do you get 40 candles on your cake? No you do not. You get either a giant "4" candle and a giant "0" candle, or you get a few candles in the shape of a 40. Or one symbolic candle. People wear black armbands to your party. They buy plates with "Over the Hill" emblazoned in black writing on them for god's sake. In what I think is the most back-handed compliment-disguised as an insult ever conceived, you all the sudden get compared to fine bottles of wine.
What's so terrible about turning 40, I always wondered before I turned 40 (ok, that's not entirely true--I thought turning 40 meant the end of youth and fun and freedom up until I was about 34; then, when faced with the prospect of turning 40 in the not-so-distant future, I conveniently started wondering what the big deal would be, as I clearly would be the youngest-seeming/looking 40 year old EVER). What's the big deal? It's a number. It doesn't define you. It's not like some anti-Peter-Pan fairy swoops down on you at 40 and sprinkles you with "now you're old" dust.
I mocked people who were afraid of 40. I mocked people who were over 40 and talked about it like it was some sort of life-altering change.
Until I actually turned 40. Okay, I get it now.
As it turns out, there may be some correlation between that "over the hill" thing and 40.
Things began to happen. Not giant things. And not all at once. But little things. My shoulder all the sudden began to hurt, and I couldn't move it a certain way. My back ached a bit when I got up in the morning. My running pace slowed down (see previous blog to get the full impact of just how slow I now must be going). It got harder to lose a pound or two. My right knee began to hurt if I ran more than seven miles (lucky for me, this didn't occur too terribly often). I had trouble getting to sleep some nights. I began to think that 2pm naps sounded like an idea whose time had arrived. I couldn't hear as well. I began talking to myself--out loud ("Okay, keys, I know you're here. If I were my keys, where would I be? Got back from the store, put away the groceries... hmmm... walked over to the sink..."). You get the idea.
All the sudden, I felt old. Not older, just plain old.
Which brings me back to the noises.
When I get up in the morning, I make this "uuuhhh" noise as I get out of bed because my back is so stiff.
When I bend down to pick up the wet towel that has been left on my daughter's floor (that's a whole other blog, by the way, soon to come) an audible groan escapes me.
When I get up off the couch, I have been known to say something akin to "oofff".
Still talking to myself, still out loud.
There's a whole list of maladies and noises that I am compiling. And all of them have developed in the last couple of years, since I turned 40.
So I would like to take this opportunity to formally apologize to my parents.
I'm sorry, Mom, that I could not understand why you liked to take a nap in the afternoons when I was a teenager, and that I thought it wasn't fair that when we went camping you got to have a cot or a pad under your sleeping bag while the rest of us slept on the ground. A sore back (likely brought on by doing so many things for all of us, for which we probably never said proper thank you's), I now understand, requires special pampering.
I'm sorry, Dad, that we (and by we, I'm implicating both my brothers) thought it was funny that you could fall asleep anywhere, anytime, and occasionally we might have tried to wake you up to amuse ourselves. I truly wish I had that talent now--falling asleep anywhere, anytime. Being able to get good sleep makes for a happy, content person, which you always were and still are. And even though we (again, implicating the siblings) poked fun at you not hearing what was going on around you, I think that two out of three of us REALLY understand that situation at this point in our lives. Thanks for always being such a great sport.
I get it now. I really do. And lest I forget to note them, there are certainly some upsides to being in my 40's. I have finally learned how to take ibuprofen for maximum effectiveness (thank you, honey, for your patience with that one--sooner or later I'll actually follow through). I have thighs of steel (from bending at the knees to save my back). My kids are now old enough to do some of the literal heavy lifting that I can no longer do because it hurts my back. My son will very soon be old enough to do some of the chauffeuring duties--he will be able to drive himself to school, pick up his sister, take her to dance class, whiz by the store for some ingredient I forgot for dinner, and pick up milkshakes late at night when we all get a sweet tooth. And of course I can't forget that amidst all the aches and pains and noises, there's not much I truly cannot do, so I'm grateful for that.
I'm using my new-found understanding of this decade of my life to look forward, to anticipate the realities (read: pains) and joys of turning 50. I'm ready to embrace the AARP, the senior discount, medicaid (if it's still around) and the early-bird special.
And, I recently heard that 50 is the new 40, so I'll have that going for me!
Monday, November 1, 2010
I Have a Teenage Daughter
I have a teenage daughter--she's thirteen, almost fourteen. I am officially an MOTG (mom of a teenage girl). I'm working on a better acronym.
Now, if you have a teenage daughter, have been a teenage daughter, or know someone who is a mother of a teenage daughter, or frankly if you just know a teenage girl, you probably have that look on your face right now. You probably didn't even realize it came over you--it just comes instinctively. It's that look of sympathy combined with exhilaration, fear and exhaustion.
For some reason, I have found that the mere mention of a teenage daughter in conversation provokes some sort of reaction amongst, well, almost anyone.
When you talk to a fellow MOTG, you get immediate support for any injustice your child may or may not have committed. Moms share stories. If you don't have a good one, your friends will tell you theirs (it's almost like a blood sport--everyone's got a story that's worse than the previous one). And at the end of their stories they will tell you with no uncertainty (and a little bit of badly masked joy) that their stories WILL BE your stories--it's only a matter of time.
When you talk to those who have never had a teenage daughter (they only have boys, or their girls are still toddlers), their thoughts immediately go all Pollyanna on you. They will ask you, with a lilt in their voices and an innocent smile on their faces, if it's so fun to go shopping together and share makeup and girl talk and give boyfriend advice. They want to know if you share clothes and shoes. Your reality is not even in the same dimension as what they perceive to be your reality. You just have to listen, smile, pretend. Nothing you say will convince them that teenage girls are not all Disney princesses.
When you talk to dads they go all second amendment on you and divulge what kinds and how many weapons they have in the house, and exactly what they will do with those weapons should a boy choose to throw a glance in the wrong direction. And they will wrap up their discourse by telling you, in a slightly hushed voice, that they were once teenage boys themselves and they know EXACTLY what all boys are thinking and EXACTLY what all teenage boys would like to do with and/or to their daughters. They will also let you in on the fact that they will wait up for their daughters to arrive home when their daughters begin dating (which according to most dads will be when they turn 29).
Now, I will admit that as an MOTG (still working on that acronym...) I have certainly had my share of stereotypical experiences. We've argued over clothing styles. We've tussled over curfews. We've squabbled about her messy room. We've had "the talk". We've debated the right age to be allowed to wear makeup and dangly earrings. We've discussed the purpose of the entire movie rating system and the philosophy behind PG-13. But isn't that to be expected? Kids of certain ages go through certain stages. We've all read the parenting magazines--we should know what's coming down the pike shouldn't we? Knowing what's ahead and preparing for it is responsible parenting.
What I could never have prepared for, however, is watching my daughter, as she enters her teen years, transform into the most amazing young woman I could ever hope to know. Seemingly against all odds (according to MOTG's everywhere), I have a teenage daughter who is polite, and not just to her own friends, but to everyone. She can carry on a conversation with my best friend just as easily as she can carry on a conversation with her own best friend. She makes eye contact. She listens. She asks engaging questions and even provides answers that go beyond the monotone "yeah" or "nah".
I have a teenage daughter who, while she will not necessarily offer you a bite of the cookie she just nabbed out of the just-opened package (she enjoys her sugar in a way that can only be described as euphoric), if it is the LAST cookie in the box, she will ask you if you want the whole thing.
I have a teenage daughter who went to a birthday party at her friend's house. They watched a very scary, gory movie, which she had no idea they were going to watch. When I picked her up late in the evening, she got into the car and, as the door closed, she burst into tears. Between sobs, she told me that the movie was really gross and bloody and she did not want to watch it. I asked her why she didn't call me to come and get her. Still crying, she explained that it was her friend's birthday, and she did not want to be rude.
I have a teenage daughter who last week, on a Saturday when she could have been out hanging with her friends, gathered her mom, dad and big brother onto the couch next to her and put in an old home-movie of our family from when she and her brother were toddlers. We watched that DVDall together, laughing so hard at some moments that we couldn't catch our breath. One particular scene of an Easter morning will be quoted in our family for years to come (hearing your 13 year old ask you, at the most sarcastically opportune moment, "You know who's proud of you, Mom? Jesus is," makes you simultaneously laugh out loud and realize that your kids in fact do listen to you and they do pick up on your irreverent attitudes, for better or worse).
I have a teenage daughter who is fun to be around. Apparently that is rare. I've heard people talk about what nightmares teenage daughters are, how disrespectful they can be. Those words have never crossed my mind to describe mine. I would choose, instead, the following words: kind, generous, big-hearted, compassionate, forgiving, smart, persistent, conscientious, talented, supportive, funny beyond belief.
I have a teenage daughter who says "I love you" as she walks out the door for school, when she leaves to go on a bike ride, when her dad leaves for a meeting, when her brother goes to spend the night at a friend's house, as she's about to hang up the phone with her grandparents.
I have a teenage daughter who, every single night as I tuck her into bed, says "Best mommy ever!"
And my response, from my heart every single night, will always be, "Best Bia in the world!"
I've given the acronym thing (MOTG) as much consideration as it's going to get, and I've decided that there is no acronym that rightly describes my situation. I think that I will, simply and very proudly, call myself Olivia's mom.
Now, if you have a teenage daughter, have been a teenage daughter, or know someone who is a mother of a teenage daughter, or frankly if you just know a teenage girl, you probably have that look on your face right now. You probably didn't even realize it came over you--it just comes instinctively. It's that look of sympathy combined with exhilaration, fear and exhaustion.
For some reason, I have found that the mere mention of a teenage daughter in conversation provokes some sort of reaction amongst, well, almost anyone.
When you talk to a fellow MOTG, you get immediate support for any injustice your child may or may not have committed. Moms share stories. If you don't have a good one, your friends will tell you theirs (it's almost like a blood sport--everyone's got a story that's worse than the previous one). And at the end of their stories they will tell you with no uncertainty (and a little bit of badly masked joy) that their stories WILL BE your stories--it's only a matter of time.
When you talk to those who have never had a teenage daughter (they only have boys, or their girls are still toddlers), their thoughts immediately go all Pollyanna on you. They will ask you, with a lilt in their voices and an innocent smile on their faces, if it's so fun to go shopping together and share makeup and girl talk and give boyfriend advice. They want to know if you share clothes and shoes. Your reality is not even in the same dimension as what they perceive to be your reality. You just have to listen, smile, pretend. Nothing you say will convince them that teenage girls are not all Disney princesses.
When you talk to dads they go all second amendment on you and divulge what kinds and how many weapons they have in the house, and exactly what they will do with those weapons should a boy choose to throw a glance in the wrong direction. And they will wrap up their discourse by telling you, in a slightly hushed voice, that they were once teenage boys themselves and they know EXACTLY what all boys are thinking and EXACTLY what all teenage boys would like to do with and/or to their daughters. They will also let you in on the fact that they will wait up for their daughters to arrive home when their daughters begin dating (which according to most dads will be when they turn 29).
Now, I will admit that as an MOTG (still working on that acronym...) I have certainly had my share of stereotypical experiences. We've argued over clothing styles. We've tussled over curfews. We've squabbled about her messy room. We've had "the talk". We've debated the right age to be allowed to wear makeup and dangly earrings. We've discussed the purpose of the entire movie rating system and the philosophy behind PG-13. But isn't that to be expected? Kids of certain ages go through certain stages. We've all read the parenting magazines--we should know what's coming down the pike shouldn't we? Knowing what's ahead and preparing for it is responsible parenting.
What I could never have prepared for, however, is watching my daughter, as she enters her teen years, transform into the most amazing young woman I could ever hope to know. Seemingly against all odds (according to MOTG's everywhere), I have a teenage daughter who is polite, and not just to her own friends, but to everyone. She can carry on a conversation with my best friend just as easily as she can carry on a conversation with her own best friend. She makes eye contact. She listens. She asks engaging questions and even provides answers that go beyond the monotone "yeah" or "nah".
I have a teenage daughter who, while she will not necessarily offer you a bite of the cookie she just nabbed out of the just-opened package (she enjoys her sugar in a way that can only be described as euphoric), if it is the LAST cookie in the box, she will ask you if you want the whole thing.
I have a teenage daughter who went to a birthday party at her friend's house. They watched a very scary, gory movie, which she had no idea they were going to watch. When I picked her up late in the evening, she got into the car and, as the door closed, she burst into tears. Between sobs, she told me that the movie was really gross and bloody and she did not want to watch it. I asked her why she didn't call me to come and get her. Still crying, she explained that it was her friend's birthday, and she did not want to be rude.
I have a teenage daughter who last week, on a Saturday when she could have been out hanging with her friends, gathered her mom, dad and big brother onto the couch next to her and put in an old home-movie of our family from when she and her brother were toddlers. We watched that DVDall together, laughing so hard at some moments that we couldn't catch our breath. One particular scene of an Easter morning will be quoted in our family for years to come (hearing your 13 year old ask you, at the most sarcastically opportune moment, "You know who's proud of you, Mom? Jesus is," makes you simultaneously laugh out loud and realize that your kids in fact do listen to you and they do pick up on your irreverent attitudes, for better or worse).
I have a teenage daughter who is fun to be around. Apparently that is rare. I've heard people talk about what nightmares teenage daughters are, how disrespectful they can be. Those words have never crossed my mind to describe mine. I would choose, instead, the following words: kind, generous, big-hearted, compassionate, forgiving, smart, persistent, conscientious, talented, supportive, funny beyond belief.
I have a teenage daughter who says "I love you" as she walks out the door for school, when she leaves to go on a bike ride, when her dad leaves for a meeting, when her brother goes to spend the night at a friend's house, as she's about to hang up the phone with her grandparents.
I have a teenage daughter who, every single night as I tuck her into bed, says "Best mommy ever!"
And my response, from my heart every single night, will always be, "Best Bia in the world!"
I've given the acronym thing (MOTG) as much consideration as it's going to get, and I've decided that there is no acronym that rightly describes my situation. I think that I will, simply and very proudly, call myself Olivia's mom.
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