What I wrote
Dear Teacher of 7-yo
I wanted to write to tell you how sorry I am to hear you are leaving. I understand you have personal reasons for relocating with your family to another state. I do wish you well. 7-yo will miss you. She has made a really great start to Second Grade. Thank you so much for the way you have encouraged her. She is happy in the classroom and eager to learn. Thank you for that.
What I wanted to write
Dear Teacher of 7-yo
Nooooo.... You can't go. You can't. 7-yo loves you. She cried yesterday when you told the class you were going. You're a brilliant teacher. Softly-spoken, serene, fair, kind, an encourager, a piquer of children's curiosity. You teach them to love learning and have fun. Don't go... There should be a rule that says good Second Grade teachers can't leave mid-year. A law. I'm going to write to President Obama. Waaaah...
.
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
Hobbling, but happy
Hobbling, but happy. That’s me.
I’ve been in Chicago. My big brother (the legendary Charlesinparis) had a conference there, and said to me ‘If I come over a couple of days early, will you come up and hang out with me?” We stayed with Expat Mum, she who showed a group of English bloggers round so ably this time last year. She plied us with tea, wine, nuggets of information about living in Chicago. I met the Ball and Chain (I didn’t call him that). Thank you Expat Mum. You really looked after us well. Ah, Bloggy Friends, it was fabulous.
We went on a boat trip, we went to the Chicago History Museum, we shopped, we saw the Bean (I love the Bean), we ate, we drank, we talked, we went to the top of the John Hancock tower (second highest building in the US) and felt a bit wobbly looking at the view. Here's a picture of the Bean.
We walked miles. Miles and miles. Mies and mies (van der Rohe) - little Chicago joke there. I don’t walk all that much in my daily life (one of my beefs about living in my car-orientated city), and after the first day I was feeling the muscles in my feet and lower legs. I was wearing natty city shoes, not my usual flip flops (it’s still summer weather here), with a little more of a heel than I’m used to. But I wasn’t going to let aching limbs and extremities curtail my city experience. By the end of the second day, I had a blister on each foot. The one on my left foot was on the sole, right in the middle of the fleshy pad, and BIG. Don’t you love blogging? Where else could I share details of my pedicular woes and be sure of a sympathetic ear? I must have looked a sorry sight hobbling through airport security at O'Hare. I’ve spent the week-end walking on the sides of my feet, and wincing, but it was worth every single painful, incapacitating step.
There is a big city person inside of me. It’s quite a small corner of me these days, but it needs a fix every now and again. My big brother is a big city person. But even if he’d invited me to spend a couple of days in a cave in the middle of nowhere, I’d have gone (and I wouldn’t have got blisters). We couldn’t remember the last time we’d spent two days in each other’s company, one on one. If ever. It’s very different to spending time in a big family conglomeration, which is how it usually is. It was wonderful. Thank you, Charlesinparis.
Hobbling, but happy… that’s rather how I am in my life at the moment. Quick update. I did enroll to do an MA in Christian Ministry. I’ve rather taken myself by surprise. I love it. I really do. Every minute. And therein lies the rub (speaking of blisters). There aren’t enough minutes in the days any more. I’ve also upped my hours at the toy shop for reasons that have their own internal Iota-style logic, though an outsider might look at my life and think “Hm, interesting timing”. I do love being busy. I’ve had too many years waiting for green cards, recuperating from chemo, being the at home mum who I love being but who has ceased being as busy as she used to be now her children are getting bigger and going to school. So now I’m busy, but aaaargh, there aren’t enough minutes. Is this what they call juggling? Struggling and juggling, hobbling and bobbling, I call it. Hobbling, bobbling, jobbling and wobbling. I have so much in my mind that my brain has run out of compartments. The chicken casserole we’re having for dinner is all mixed up with Church History, 14-yo’s need for new soccer boots, Neil Armstrong (school project), and Savlon. All to the soundtrack of 10-yo's clarinet practice and the Disney Buddy Songs CD that 7-yo bought at a yard sale at the week-end chim chimma-nee chim chimma-nee chim chim cher-eeeee. It’s not pretty in there, I tell you.
Hobbling, but happy.
Photo credit: www.explorechicago.org
I’ve been in Chicago. My big brother (the legendary Charlesinparis) had a conference there, and said to me ‘If I come over a couple of days early, will you come up and hang out with me?” We stayed with Expat Mum, she who showed a group of English bloggers round so ably this time last year. She plied us with tea, wine, nuggets of information about living in Chicago. I met the Ball and Chain (I didn’t call him that). Thank you Expat Mum. You really looked after us well. Ah, Bloggy Friends, it was fabulous.
We went on a boat trip, we went to the Chicago History Museum, we shopped, we saw the Bean (I love the Bean), we ate, we drank, we talked, we went to the top of the John Hancock tower (second highest building in the US) and felt a bit wobbly looking at the view. Here's a picture of the Bean.
We walked miles. Miles and miles. Mies and mies (van der Rohe) - little Chicago joke there. I don’t walk all that much in my daily life (one of my beefs about living in my car-orientated city), and after the first day I was feeling the muscles in my feet and lower legs. I was wearing natty city shoes, not my usual flip flops (it’s still summer weather here), with a little more of a heel than I’m used to. But I wasn’t going to let aching limbs and extremities curtail my city experience. By the end of the second day, I had a blister on each foot. The one on my left foot was on the sole, right in the middle of the fleshy pad, and BIG. Don’t you love blogging? Where else could I share details of my pedicular woes and be sure of a sympathetic ear? I must have looked a sorry sight hobbling through airport security at O'Hare. I’ve spent the week-end walking on the sides of my feet, and wincing, but it was worth every single painful, incapacitating step.
There is a big city person inside of me. It’s quite a small corner of me these days, but it needs a fix every now and again. My big brother is a big city person. But even if he’d invited me to spend a couple of days in a cave in the middle of nowhere, I’d have gone (and I wouldn’t have got blisters). We couldn’t remember the last time we’d spent two days in each other’s company, one on one. If ever. It’s very different to spending time in a big family conglomeration, which is how it usually is. It was wonderful. Thank you, Charlesinparis.
Hobbling, but happy… that’s rather how I am in my life at the moment. Quick update. I did enroll to do an MA in Christian Ministry. I’ve rather taken myself by surprise. I love it. I really do. Every minute. And therein lies the rub (speaking of blisters). There aren’t enough minutes in the days any more. I’ve also upped my hours at the toy shop for reasons that have their own internal Iota-style logic, though an outsider might look at my life and think “Hm, interesting timing”. I do love being busy. I’ve had too many years waiting for green cards, recuperating from chemo, being the at home mum who I love being but who has ceased being as busy as she used to be now her children are getting bigger and going to school. So now I’m busy, but aaaargh, there aren’t enough minutes. Is this what they call juggling? Struggling and juggling, hobbling and bobbling, I call it. Hobbling, bobbling, jobbling and wobbling. I have so much in my mind that my brain has run out of compartments. The chicken casserole we’re having for dinner is all mixed up with Church History, 14-yo’s need for new soccer boots, Neil Armstrong (school project), and Savlon. All to the soundtrack of 10-yo's clarinet practice and the Disney Buddy Songs CD that 7-yo bought at a yard sale at the week-end chim chimma-nee chim chimma-nee chim chim cher-eeeee. It’s not pretty in there, I tell you.
Hobbling, but happy.
Photo credit: www.explorechicago.org
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
These are two of my favourite things
I was pondering what is my very favourite thing about living in America, and I think it is this. I love what has come to be known as the 'can do' attitude of Americans. But it's more subtle than that. The 'can do' attitude is often used as a blunt instrument, to beat us all into a 'try harder' mentality. I get irritated when I hear stories about the man who started selling running shoes out of the back of his truck, and ta-da, a few decades of hard work later, he's CEO of Nike! I hate those stories, and they do abound here. Abound, I tell you. What they fail to recognise is all the thousands of people who sold running shoes out of the backs of their trucks, and quack quack oops, a few decades of hard work later, they're still selling running shoes out of the backs of their trucks. Or they've found other ways of making small amounts of money and scraping a life together. And of course it begs the question, do we all want to be successful business achievers? Is that the highest aim?
So the 'can do' attitude has its rather thumping approach to life, but its finer side is worth a second look. I didn't know the word 'intentional' before I lived here. I like the word. It speaks of attempts to live life in meaningful ways. Who wants to look back on their allotted span and think "well, that was kind of fun"? Wouldn't we rather look back and see that we expended our energies seeking out what was important, what was meaningful, what was good, and pursuing those things? Intentionality in the small things of life can make a huge difference. Americans are much less shy than we are of living life in a way that says "this is what I'm about". You see it in the way they talk about family, friendship, bringing up children, hobbies. They don't just want to see what life brings. They want to find what they want in life. I love that. I used not to know the word 'intentional', and now I seek out opportunities to use it. (Geddit?)
Then I thought about what I miss most about life in Britain (as a generality, not the obvious issue of specific people, places or things). I decided it was the humour. That wry, dry, dark, self-deprecating, witty, hilarious, sarcastic, ironic, squirmy humour that is in my bones. It has to lie a little dormant here. It just does. It seeps about quietly in my marrow.
I'm guessing that if you haven't grown up with it, British humour can be negative, sarky, detached, and downright odd. Perhaps it reveals our stoicism. "Pack up your troubles in your old kit bag, and smile, smile, smile" - that kind of attitude. "You have to laugh, or else you'd cry." So why do I love it; why do I miss it? I think it's because it speaks of the ability to hold lightly to life, to take ourselves with the lack of seriousness we deserve, to walk across the top of the difficult days instead of trudging through them, to deflect what life throws at us instead of catching it, to enjoy the loopiness of it all, quite literally to laugh things off.
I realise that what I like most about here, and what I miss most about there, are two sides of the same coin. I hadn't seen that when I started writing this blog post, but it's obvious now. I like taking life seriously, and I like taking it not too seriously. That's a bit weird of me isn't it?
Come on then. Fill up my comments box with the things you like or dislike about the place you live, and the nationality you are. (The first person to say "a nice cup of tea" wins a virtual prize.) Or do my generalities annoy you? Do they say more about me than about the two nations I dare to stereotype?
So the 'can do' attitude has its rather thumping approach to life, but its finer side is worth a second look. I didn't know the word 'intentional' before I lived here. I like the word. It speaks of attempts to live life in meaningful ways. Who wants to look back on their allotted span and think "well, that was kind of fun"? Wouldn't we rather look back and see that we expended our energies seeking out what was important, what was meaningful, what was good, and pursuing those things? Intentionality in the small things of life can make a huge difference. Americans are much less shy than we are of living life in a way that says "this is what I'm about". You see it in the way they talk about family, friendship, bringing up children, hobbies. They don't just want to see what life brings. They want to find what they want in life. I love that. I used not to know the word 'intentional', and now I seek out opportunities to use it. (Geddit?)
Then I thought about what I miss most about life in Britain (as a generality, not the obvious issue of specific people, places or things). I decided it was the humour. That wry, dry, dark, self-deprecating, witty, hilarious, sarcastic, ironic, squirmy humour that is in my bones. It has to lie a little dormant here. It just does. It seeps about quietly in my marrow.
I'm guessing that if you haven't grown up with it, British humour can be negative, sarky, detached, and downright odd. Perhaps it reveals our stoicism. "Pack up your troubles in your old kit bag, and smile, smile, smile" - that kind of attitude. "You have to laugh, or else you'd cry." So why do I love it; why do I miss it? I think it's because it speaks of the ability to hold lightly to life, to take ourselves with the lack of seriousness we deserve, to walk across the top of the difficult days instead of trudging through them, to deflect what life throws at us instead of catching it, to enjoy the loopiness of it all, quite literally to laugh things off.
I realise that what I like most about here, and what I miss most about there, are two sides of the same coin. I hadn't seen that when I started writing this blog post, but it's obvious now. I like taking life seriously, and I like taking it not too seriously. That's a bit weird of me isn't it?
Come on then. Fill up my comments box with the things you like or dislike about the place you live, and the nationality you are. (The first person to say "a nice cup of tea" wins a virtual prize.) Or do my generalities annoy you? Do they say more about me than about the two nations I dare to stereotype?
Thursday, September 8, 2011
Things that aren't right with education
Oh, don't get me started. Truly. This is the stuff of many a conversation in our household. Kind of goes with the territory if you're married to a Philosophy Professor. I tell you, "evaluation" is a more-than-four-letter word in this house. (Come to think of it, it probably is in your house too.)
So I'm not going to get all ranty about the education system. The school year has been underway a couple of weeks here, so we are almost in full swing, ahead of you, my fellow compatriots-by-birth-not-current-location.
However, I do just want to share with you something that happened with 7-yo, which was one of those moments where she discovered that sometimes you do your best, and it's not right, or not good enough. I hate that. What mother doesn't hate that for her small child?
She was showing me a couple of passages that she'd had to read and answer questions on. I think we used to call them 'comprehension exercises' - I don't know if they still do. The first one was about a girl named Frida, going off to camp to learn to play tennis. On the bus, Frida looks for her best friend, named Gina (not Saturda or Sunda, which would have been more logical), who wasn't there. So she sat next to another girl, Elaine. When she got to camp, she found out that Gina wasn't coming as she was ill. "Frida was sad" the passage tells us. "She wanted to play tennis with Gina". But she played with Elaine instead. The passage goes on "The girls learned how to hit the ball." Oh yes. That would be useful for playing tennis. It concludes by saying that Frida missed Gina, but still enjoyed herself. The next day, she told Gina about camp and about Elaine, and couldn't wait to share her new friend with her best friend.
Most of the questions on the passage were multiple choice, but one of them asked
Why is Gina's illness important to the story? Include details from the story in your answer.
7-yo wrote:
Frida and Gina are Best friends. Frida missed Gina very much.
an answer which was deemed inadequate. Wah. Honestly, I think 7-yo had just missed the ending of the story, which was on the back of the page, and maybe there's a lesson there about remembering to turn the page over. But I also think that even if she'd read to the end, her answer stands. I'm guessing the correct answer would be something like "Because Gina was ill, Frida made a new friend, Elaine. Frida would not have played with Elaine if Gina had not been ill." But I like 7-yo's response. She's bringing of herself to the story. To her, the most important thing was that Frida missed Gina very much. (And, between you and me, I think she did well to skip that bit about introducing a new friend to a best friend, because we all know what a recipe for upset that can be.)
I comprehend that the exercise was all about comprehension of the passage, and not designed to encourage personal response to literature, but I think that's sad. The idea that there's a right and wrong answer when you're talking about plot and character seems very limiting. I know I'm over-thinking this, but you would too, if you'd seen 7-yo's big blue sad eyes, as she asked "why did I only get 11 out of 13?", and I had to tell her that she's not always going to get full marks for everything and that that's ok. And adding that sometimes the questions are a bit silly, or open to misinterpretation, and then you just have to know that it's the question that's wrong and not you. Was that the right answer? I don't know.
Then there was the second passage, all about Mr Garcia, who brought a guinea pig into his classroom, and how excited the children all were. One of the children, Paula, held the guinea pig, and whispered to it "Welcome to our class". Aw. Anyway, 7-yo had to say what "whisper" meant from the following four options: shout, soft voice, loud voice, friendly tone. She picked "friendly tone", which wasn't the correct answer. But she explained to me that in the story, Paula knew the guinea pig would be frightened by all the people, so she whispered to it because she wanted to help it not to be frightened, and so that was being friendly to it, wasn't it? So "whisper" DID mean "friendly tone" in this story, didn't it?
All this over-thinking. Can't imagine where she gets it from.
One more thing. Can schools puh-lease stop giving our children stories to read about cute dogs and sweet little guinea pigs? At least until after Christmas. If they insist on stories about dogs, the narrative should be full of details about vet bills, boarding kennel bills, unpleasant poop-scooping, and walking out in the wind and rain when you'd rather be inside watching television.
.
So I'm not going to get all ranty about the education system. The school year has been underway a couple of weeks here, so we are almost in full swing, ahead of you, my fellow compatriots-by-birth-not-current-location.
However, I do just want to share with you something that happened with 7-yo, which was one of those moments where she discovered that sometimes you do your best, and it's not right, or not good enough. I hate that. What mother doesn't hate that for her small child?
She was showing me a couple of passages that she'd had to read and answer questions on. I think we used to call them 'comprehension exercises' - I don't know if they still do. The first one was about a girl named Frida, going off to camp to learn to play tennis. On the bus, Frida looks for her best friend, named Gina (not Saturda or Sunda, which would have been more logical), who wasn't there. So she sat next to another girl, Elaine. When she got to camp, she found out that Gina wasn't coming as she was ill. "Frida was sad" the passage tells us. "She wanted to play tennis with Gina". But she played with Elaine instead. The passage goes on "The girls learned how to hit the ball." Oh yes. That would be useful for playing tennis. It concludes by saying that Frida missed Gina, but still enjoyed herself. The next day, she told Gina about camp and about Elaine, and couldn't wait to share her new friend with her best friend.
Most of the questions on the passage were multiple choice, but one of them asked
Why is Gina's illness important to the story? Include details from the story in your answer.
7-yo wrote:
Frida and Gina are Best friends. Frida missed Gina very much.
an answer which was deemed inadequate. Wah. Honestly, I think 7-yo had just missed the ending of the story, which was on the back of the page, and maybe there's a lesson there about remembering to turn the page over. But I also think that even if she'd read to the end, her answer stands. I'm guessing the correct answer would be something like "Because Gina was ill, Frida made a new friend, Elaine. Frida would not have played with Elaine if Gina had not been ill." But I like 7-yo's response. She's bringing of herself to the story. To her, the most important thing was that Frida missed Gina very much. (And, between you and me, I think she did well to skip that bit about introducing a new friend to a best friend, because we all know what a recipe for upset that can be.)
I comprehend that the exercise was all about comprehension of the passage, and not designed to encourage personal response to literature, but I think that's sad. The idea that there's a right and wrong answer when you're talking about plot and character seems very limiting. I know I'm over-thinking this, but you would too, if you'd seen 7-yo's big blue sad eyes, as she asked "why did I only get 11 out of 13?", and I had to tell her that she's not always going to get full marks for everything and that that's ok. And adding that sometimes the questions are a bit silly, or open to misinterpretation, and then you just have to know that it's the question that's wrong and not you. Was that the right answer? I don't know.
Then there was the second passage, all about Mr Garcia, who brought a guinea pig into his classroom, and how excited the children all were. One of the children, Paula, held the guinea pig, and whispered to it "Welcome to our class". Aw. Anyway, 7-yo had to say what "whisper" meant from the following four options: shout, soft voice, loud voice, friendly tone. She picked "friendly tone", which wasn't the correct answer. But she explained to me that in the story, Paula knew the guinea pig would be frightened by all the people, so she whispered to it because she wanted to help it not to be frightened, and so that was being friendly to it, wasn't it? So "whisper" DID mean "friendly tone" in this story, didn't it?
All this over-thinking. Can't imagine where she gets it from.
One more thing. Can schools puh-lease stop giving our children stories to read about cute dogs and sweet little guinea pigs? At least until after Christmas. If they insist on stories about dogs, the narrative should be full of details about vet bills, boarding kennel bills, unpleasant poop-scooping, and walking out in the wind and rain when you'd rather be inside watching television.
.
Friday, September 2, 2011
Things that just aren't right somehow
I was never a big fan of the slanket. In fact, I'd go further than that. I really hated the idea of the slanket. I hated it so much, that I'm not even going to find a picture to put here. You'll just have to google it yourselves.
Oh, go on then.
I just don't get it. Either you want a blanket to snuggle under on your sofa, in which case, get a blanket. Or you want something with sleeves, in which case, get a sweater (or jumper if you're English). Listen carefully: either... or... Shall I run that by you again? Either... or... Got that? Who on earth wants to wander round the house, looking like a Hallowe'en alien commander gone wrong, tripping over an oversized garment whose only redeeming feature is... hang on... hm... can't think of one. A slanket has no redeeming feature. Except that they're optional. You don't have to have one. And guess what? I don't. (I do have an alien commander Hallowe'en costume though. Well, my son does.)
I don't know which is worse, by the way. 'Slanket' or 'Snuggie', which was the name used to market these apologies for household items on this side of the Atlantic. The name 'slanket' sounds like the kind of false expletive you use when you're in the company of children. "Oh slanket!" you might say, as you pour Cheerios all over the floor because someone has ripped the bag open sideways, and half the contents has ended up loose in the box, but you hadn't noticed before you aimed for the cereal bowl with your usual morning abandon. But 'snuggie' is somehow worse. It's the thought of opening a present on Christmas morning in front of your relatives, and having to say "oh, a snuggie! Just what I was hoping for!" In that situation, you need a word that doesn't sound as embarrassing as you feel embarrassed. 'Snuggie' is the kind of word smurfs might use. In fact, I bet you can buy a blue 'Smurftastic Snuggie' on Amazon. I'm not going to look. It would be too depressing if I'm right.
Let's leave the slanket/snuggie to one side and move on to an article that yesterday made me shiver with horror as I spotted it in my local supermarket. Pajama jeans. And yes, peoples, we're talking pajama, not pyjama. But honestly? Really? Truly? Pajama jeans? Why? Just... why? Of all the sartorial innovations there could be in the world, why, why would someone invent pajama jeans?
Let's try that nifty "either... or..." tool that we learnt about during our analysis of the slanket. Here goes. Either pajamas... or jeans... Either pajamas... or jeans... See? It works here too. If you want to wear pajamas, wear pajamas. If you want to wear jeans, wear jeans. Are we getting the hang of this yet, peoples?
I can't imagine what pajama jeans are for. Are they nightwear or daywear? Or (*shudder*) are you meant to wear them in the day and simply not bother to change when it's bedtime? And then get up the next morning and not have to put clothes on? Are they for people who live life in the fast lane and have no time to get dressed and undressed? In which case, do you wear panties underneath them or not? I am not coping well with this concept.
Deep breath, Iota, deep breath. This is not armageddon. Just pajama jeans in your local supermarket.
I have one final reflection, Bloggy Peeps. Hybrids are cars, not clothing.
Oh, go on then.
I just don't get it. Either you want a blanket to snuggle under on your sofa, in which case, get a blanket. Or you want something with sleeves, in which case, get a sweater (or jumper if you're English). Listen carefully: either... or... Shall I run that by you again? Either... or... Got that? Who on earth wants to wander round the house, looking like a Hallowe'en alien commander gone wrong, tripping over an oversized garment whose only redeeming feature is... hang on... hm... can't think of one. A slanket has no redeeming feature. Except that they're optional. You don't have to have one. And guess what? I don't. (I do have an alien commander Hallowe'en costume though. Well, my son does.)
I don't know which is worse, by the way. 'Slanket' or 'Snuggie', which was the name used to market these apologies for household items on this side of the Atlantic. The name 'slanket' sounds like the kind of false expletive you use when you're in the company of children. "Oh slanket!" you might say, as you pour Cheerios all over the floor because someone has ripped the bag open sideways, and half the contents has ended up loose in the box, but you hadn't noticed before you aimed for the cereal bowl with your usual morning abandon. But 'snuggie' is somehow worse. It's the thought of opening a present on Christmas morning in front of your relatives, and having to say "oh, a snuggie! Just what I was hoping for!" In that situation, you need a word that doesn't sound as embarrassing as you feel embarrassed. 'Snuggie' is the kind of word smurfs might use. In fact, I bet you can buy a blue 'Smurftastic Snuggie' on Amazon. I'm not going to look. It would be too depressing if I'm right.
Let's leave the slanket/snuggie to one side and move on to an article that yesterday made me shiver with horror as I spotted it in my local supermarket. Pajama jeans. And yes, peoples, we're talking pajama, not pyjama. But honestly? Really? Truly? Pajama jeans? Why? Just... why? Of all the sartorial innovations there could be in the world, why, why would someone invent pajama jeans?
Let's try that nifty "either... or..." tool that we learnt about during our analysis of the slanket. Here goes. Either pajamas... or jeans... Either pajamas... or jeans... See? It works here too. If you want to wear pajamas, wear pajamas. If you want to wear jeans, wear jeans. Are we getting the hang of this yet, peoples?
I can't imagine what pajama jeans are for. Are they nightwear or daywear? Or (*shudder*) are you meant to wear them in the day and simply not bother to change when it's bedtime? And then get up the next morning and not have to put clothes on? Are they for people who live life in the fast lane and have no time to get dressed and undressed? In which case, do you wear panties underneath them or not? I am not coping well with this concept.
Deep breath, Iota, deep breath. This is not armageddon. Just pajama jeans in your local supermarket.
I have one final reflection, Bloggy Peeps. Hybrids are cars, not clothing.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)