It was pouring rain as we neared home after traversing the state today. John (age 5) had been a trooper for the 3-hour round-trip, being cheerful, talkative, and (mostly) keeping his hands away from his little sister (who slept most of the trip).
His small voice came from the seat directly behind me, draped with a dreamy, reflective quality. Nothing to warn me of his killer instincts. "Mom, how many raindrops do you think are falling?"
"Umm, I really don't know, John. Do you mean ever, or right now?"
"Right now, and you have to make a guess."
"Oh, okay. Umm, one-billion."
"Wrong!" All traces of dreaminess were gone from his voice, replaced with a mischievious, grinning quality. "It's one-billion-nine. Hello?!"
I was startled to hear such obnoxious, older humor tone in the "Hello?! Are you an idiot?" of a five-year-old. But he was giggling so fiercely at his own joke that I couldn't help but give him instantly.
We spent the rest of the drive discussing numbers. "What is bigger, one-billion-one or one-billion-two? Is anything bigger than one-billion-nine? Well, then what is bigger than one-trillion? How do I count to one-trillion?" At least it kept me awake on a long drive. If only we could all maintain such enthusiasm to learn everything.
Tuesday, April 9, 2013
Thursday, April 4, 2013
Helen at 2 years and 2 months old
Helen is turning out to have quite a distinctive personality of her own (in case we ever doubted that). I won't think of everything I want to record about her now, but I want to get a few things down before I forget them all.
Helen is now clearly a person in her own right, with ideas and opinions in every matter. She may get frustrated when we fail to recognize this, or to respect this, but she never wavers in this reality. She is still so little, physically, that it is easy to dismiss her, but she doesn't let that go for long.
Helen has learned that manners may serve her well in life, and so has put them to good use. She might just be the most polite person I know right now - she almost always says "please" and "thank you" (granted, the thank you is a bit sub-vocal so you have to know what to listen for). She has even started to say "excuse me" after burping or passing gas. That made me crack up the first time I heard it. "Sorry" is harder to come by, but she is thinking about it.
These manners really do work to her benefit. It is hard to say no to her when she asks so plaintively and yet so politely. And for some reason, it strikes me as particularly funny for her to be so precise in her polite words while her grammar overall is still so odd. Thus, a common construction heard around here is, "Mama, book me, please." (Translation: Read a book to me.)
Helen is determinedly independent. "My do it!" is the refrain of the house. (We are working on distinguishing the "I" and "My" sounds - she finds the process hilarious.) She is also a fierce copycat. Thus, anything that any of us do, we can safely expect to find Helen trying to do it as soon as she witnesses it. This means she dresses herself (not too badly, actually); she gets my facial moisturizer out and smears it all over her face; she brushes her teeth regularly (and insists on the full routine - paste on the brush and then put it in the water); she tried to put my contact lenses in tonight (oh no!).
Helen loves to be outside, preferably to take a walk. If anyone puts on a coat or shoes, she appears instantly at his or her side, hurriedly pulling on her own outerwear and acting for all the world as if you have invited her to come along.
She is starting to use the toilet on her own, though it is still a bit sporadic. Most often, she asks to go right after she has already peed in her pull-up, but sometimes she gets the timing right. She particularly likes to visit any and all public restrooms, which makes outings with her a bit more complicated, now. At home, she knows where we keep the "potty treats" (a chocolate chip for a successful visit to the toilet) and has learned to help herself if not watched. She is tidy, though. The other day, I discovered a chair pushed up against the counter where we keep the treats, so I went hunting for trouble. I found her in the playroom, sitting calmly on the futon next to the other kids who were playing on the Wii. She had in her lap a plate filled with chocolate chips and was calmly consuming them as she watched the video game. I wasn't sure what to say - at least she was using a plate, which is beyond what I have managed to train any of the older kids to do!
She has definite opinions on clothing. I am not sure what they are yet, but they are definite. Some days, it seems that she just wants to wear anything that I haven't picked out for her, to assert her independence. If that is the case, her teen years might be long and trying.
I am sure there is much more to say, but perhaps for another day;.
Helen is now clearly a person in her own right, with ideas and opinions in every matter. She may get frustrated when we fail to recognize this, or to respect this, but she never wavers in this reality. She is still so little, physically, that it is easy to dismiss her, but she doesn't let that go for long.
Helen has learned that manners may serve her well in life, and so has put them to good use. She might just be the most polite person I know right now - she almost always says "please" and "thank you" (granted, the thank you is a bit sub-vocal so you have to know what to listen for). She has even started to say "excuse me" after burping or passing gas. That made me crack up the first time I heard it. "Sorry" is harder to come by, but she is thinking about it.
These manners really do work to her benefit. It is hard to say no to her when she asks so plaintively and yet so politely. And for some reason, it strikes me as particularly funny for her to be so precise in her polite words while her grammar overall is still so odd. Thus, a common construction heard around here is, "Mama, book me, please." (Translation: Read a book to me.)
Helen is determinedly independent. "My do it!" is the refrain of the house. (We are working on distinguishing the "I" and "My" sounds - she finds the process hilarious.) She is also a fierce copycat. Thus, anything that any of us do, we can safely expect to find Helen trying to do it as soon as she witnesses it. This means she dresses herself (not too badly, actually); she gets my facial moisturizer out and smears it all over her face; she brushes her teeth regularly (and insists on the full routine - paste on the brush and then put it in the water); she tried to put my contact lenses in tonight (oh no!).
Helen loves to be outside, preferably to take a walk. If anyone puts on a coat or shoes, she appears instantly at his or her side, hurriedly pulling on her own outerwear and acting for all the world as if you have invited her to come along.
She is starting to use the toilet on her own, though it is still a bit sporadic. Most often, she asks to go right after she has already peed in her pull-up, but sometimes she gets the timing right. She particularly likes to visit any and all public restrooms, which makes outings with her a bit more complicated, now. At home, she knows where we keep the "potty treats" (a chocolate chip for a successful visit to the toilet) and has learned to help herself if not watched. She is tidy, though. The other day, I discovered a chair pushed up against the counter where we keep the treats, so I went hunting for trouble. I found her in the playroom, sitting calmly on the futon next to the other kids who were playing on the Wii. She had in her lap a plate filled with chocolate chips and was calmly consuming them as she watched the video game. I wasn't sure what to say - at least she was using a plate, which is beyond what I have managed to train any of the older kids to do!
She has definite opinions on clothing. I am not sure what they are yet, but they are definite. Some days, it seems that she just wants to wear anything that I haven't picked out for her, to assert her independence. If that is the case, her teen years might be long and trying.
I am sure there is much more to say, but perhaps for another day;.
Spring ducks
These photos are from mid-March. I am trying to get caught up a bit. And, in case you are wondering, yes, these two are big trouble.
Wednesday, April 3, 2013
Spring clothes
Helen really liked the little dress that Grandma Di found for her at the Goodwill. So much so, that when she got home, she insisted on putting it on right over her pajamas. She slept all night that way.
Easter Joy 2013
This year, w
e had the fun of hosting our good friends for a 3-day weekend. What did we do with 14 of us in the house, you may ask? Well, mostly, we laughed a lot. But, in photos, here was our visit:
e had the fun of hosting our good friends for a 3-day weekend. What did we do with 14 of us in the house, you may ask? Well, mostly, we laughed a lot. But, in photos, here was our visit:
WE PLAYED BOARD GAMES
WE PLAYED VIDEO GAMES
AND CHECKED IN WITH EMAIL ON LAPTOPS AND SMART PHONES
WE DYED EASTER EGGS - MANY, MANY EGGS
WE TOOK NAPS - SHORT NAPS
WE MADE S'MORES IN THE FIREPLACE
Of course, that is just what I happened to have my camera out for. We also:
- painted the hallway and bedroom (getting us much closer to finally finishing our bathroom remodel)
- stayed up way too late talking and laughing
- jumped on the trampolines at SkyZone
- walked to the Calvin College Nature Preserve
- had a picnic at the park
- went out to dinner (adults) while the kids fixed pizzas and looked after each other
- Celebrated Easter at church and then with a ham dinner
Altogether, not bad for 3 days. Can't wait to do it again!
Thursday, February 28, 2013
Writer's Block
I have really only experienced writing in two extremes. It has been the worst form of hard labor. Each word must be dragged out of me, weighing as heavy as any penal colony ball and chain. Or, it has been unstoppable. When the floodgates burst open, writing pours out, the words coming faster than I can scribble them down, arriving in complete, complex, fully shaped sentences that defy revision.
Not surprisingly, this has made writing an activity about which I feel some ambivalence. When I am "in the flow," writing is a joy; in fact, it is almost not a choice. The words have to come out, and if I don't get to write them down, I find that I am just mulling them over in my head anyway. Then, I might enter one of my "highly distracted" modes, where I am not very good company. We once had a friend who used a phrase I have found useful to describe this state - she would say that she felt like she lived a complex inner life. So, I like to grab a computer (or actually, most of the time a pen and paper is preferable) and get the words out.
On the other hand, sometimes I am in the other state. I feel very sorry for myself if this is how I find myself as I face a deadline at work. I can stare at a blank page endlessly, unable to construct even a topic sentence, let alone a coherent outline. I have learned it is nearly pointless to force the words. I put it aside, let it percolate, and usually (thankfully!) the flow returns in time to finish the job, all in a rush.
Like any good writer, I can be extremely temperamental to match my writing moods. I recall (with no small amount of shame) a particularly petulant fit that I threw as a high school senior. I was trying to construct an essay for a college application, and I was definitely not in the flow mode. I moped and whined about the house in a manner that would have made any two-year-old proud.
As I look back on that time, I think about how I would have reacted to myself, had I been the mom in the situation. Probably, I would have joined the fray. After just ignoring for a while, I would have hopped in with all guns blazing, arguing and yelling right back at my child to shape up and get the job done. I find I have shamefully little patience for a child who is reacting to the stress of schoolwork with a tantrum. ("Just get it done already, and put us all out of our misery.")
My mom, on the other hand, true to form, never rose to my bait. Or, perhaps in this case, I should say, never stooped to my level. She also didn't just ignore me. She let me storm a bit, then sat down calmly beside me, as if I weren't screaming at her like my lack of inspiration was somehow her fault. I hollered at her that I couldn't think of a topic. She asked some calm questions and made some suggestions. I responded by telling her that all of her ideas were stupid and couldn't work. She suggested that I just write something, anything, to get started. I refused. She told me to just pick up the pen and keep it moving until I got an idea to write about. I knew she meant to write words, of course, but I sulkily filled the entire page with scribbling circles. Instead of then tossing the paper back in my face in disgust and getting back to her own pressing concerns (as I would do, now, for my own kids, I think), she blinked once, twice, then said evenly, "What have you drawn?"
"Nothing. I have nothing to write."
"What do you see when you look at this picture?"
(What is this? An inkblot test? I was even sulky in my private thoughts.) "I don't know."
"Then make something up. Tell me what it is."
And so it began. Through Mom's patience (and eerie ability to avoid or ignore personal affront), I had a topic for my essay within the hour. Then, "the flow" returned and the essay wrote itself. Even to this day, I confess feeling a bit guilty about that essay. It helped me earn some nice scholarships, but I always wondered if I could have ever written it myself, without the aid of my muse (my mom).
And so, I now find myself in the position of Mom. James (grade 6) is being pushed to his own limits this year with his English class. He has been really enjoying the class part of his accelerated English class. It seems that both his teacher and the other 20 or so 7th and 8th grade students are a fun-loving, quirky group with whom James loves to spend time discussing deep thoughts. However, he does not at all enjoy the homework part of this class. The load is certainly heavy, but not nearly as heavy as it seems to James, who finds it nearly impossible to sit and focus on a project for the extended periods of time often required. In addition to weekly assignments (reading, short writing exercises in response to readings, creative writing exercises, as well as grammar and vocabulary exercises), James has had to write several longer papers this year. There was a short story (he ended up with about 1400 words), a personal narrative, a descriptive essay, a sonnet, a blues song, and now a research paper/explanatory essay based on a family history project..
A few times, I have been the designated hand-holder for James while he stares at a blank piece of paper, trying to figure out where to begin on one of these longer writing assignments. Frustration turns to anguish as he struggles to choose a topic and eke out a few words. I ache for him. I ache for myself, through echoes of my own parallel moments of stalled topic-choosing. And then I am stumped. I don't have my own mom's gift - to get something out of nothing. I write when writing is given to me - the flow. How do I help someone else learn to write on command when I have never learned to do it myself?
And so I sit a quiet vigil with him, when I can. I suggest ideas where I can, but often fail to bite my tongue when he lashes out at me, the helper, just as I once lashed out at my own imperturbable mom. I pray that through James's perseverance, his nascent love of writing will eventually blossom rather than be squashed. I wish for James to find the flow for himself; to experience the joy of sometimes getting the words just right. And I wish, now as ever, as I work through this latest step in my parenting journey, that I still had Mom here to walk this road with me.
Not surprisingly, this has made writing an activity about which I feel some ambivalence. When I am "in the flow," writing is a joy; in fact, it is almost not a choice. The words have to come out, and if I don't get to write them down, I find that I am just mulling them over in my head anyway. Then, I might enter one of my "highly distracted" modes, where I am not very good company. We once had a friend who used a phrase I have found useful to describe this state - she would say that she felt like she lived a complex inner life. So, I like to grab a computer (or actually, most of the time a pen and paper is preferable) and get the words out.
On the other hand, sometimes I am in the other state. I feel very sorry for myself if this is how I find myself as I face a deadline at work. I can stare at a blank page endlessly, unable to construct even a topic sentence, let alone a coherent outline. I have learned it is nearly pointless to force the words. I put it aside, let it percolate, and usually (thankfully!) the flow returns in time to finish the job, all in a rush.
Like any good writer, I can be extremely temperamental to match my writing moods. I recall (with no small amount of shame) a particularly petulant fit that I threw as a high school senior. I was trying to construct an essay for a college application, and I was definitely not in the flow mode. I moped and whined about the house in a manner that would have made any two-year-old proud.
As I look back on that time, I think about how I would have reacted to myself, had I been the mom in the situation. Probably, I would have joined the fray. After just ignoring for a while, I would have hopped in with all guns blazing, arguing and yelling right back at my child to shape up and get the job done. I find I have shamefully little patience for a child who is reacting to the stress of schoolwork with a tantrum. ("Just get it done already, and put us all out of our misery.")
My mom, on the other hand, true to form, never rose to my bait. Or, perhaps in this case, I should say, never stooped to my level. She also didn't just ignore me. She let me storm a bit, then sat down calmly beside me, as if I weren't screaming at her like my lack of inspiration was somehow her fault. I hollered at her that I couldn't think of a topic. She asked some calm questions and made some suggestions. I responded by telling her that all of her ideas were stupid and couldn't work. She suggested that I just write something, anything, to get started. I refused. She told me to just pick up the pen and keep it moving until I got an idea to write about. I knew she meant to write words, of course, but I sulkily filled the entire page with scribbling circles. Instead of then tossing the paper back in my face in disgust and getting back to her own pressing concerns (as I would do, now, for my own kids, I think), she blinked once, twice, then said evenly, "What have you drawn?"
"Nothing. I have nothing to write."
"What do you see when you look at this picture?"
(What is this? An inkblot test? I was even sulky in my private thoughts.) "I don't know."
"Then make something up. Tell me what it is."
And so it began. Through Mom's patience (and eerie ability to avoid or ignore personal affront), I had a topic for my essay within the hour. Then, "the flow" returned and the essay wrote itself. Even to this day, I confess feeling a bit guilty about that essay. It helped me earn some nice scholarships, but I always wondered if I could have ever written it myself, without the aid of my muse (my mom).
And so, I now find myself in the position of Mom. James (grade 6) is being pushed to his own limits this year with his English class. He has been really enjoying the class part of his accelerated English class. It seems that both his teacher and the other 20 or so 7th and 8th grade students are a fun-loving, quirky group with whom James loves to spend time discussing deep thoughts. However, he does not at all enjoy the homework part of this class. The load is certainly heavy, but not nearly as heavy as it seems to James, who finds it nearly impossible to sit and focus on a project for the extended periods of time often required. In addition to weekly assignments (reading, short writing exercises in response to readings, creative writing exercises, as well as grammar and vocabulary exercises), James has had to write several longer papers this year. There was a short story (he ended up with about 1400 words), a personal narrative, a descriptive essay, a sonnet, a blues song, and now a research paper/explanatory essay based on a family history project..
A few times, I have been the designated hand-holder for James while he stares at a blank piece of paper, trying to figure out where to begin on one of these longer writing assignments. Frustration turns to anguish as he struggles to choose a topic and eke out a few words. I ache for him. I ache for myself, through echoes of my own parallel moments of stalled topic-choosing. And then I am stumped. I don't have my own mom's gift - to get something out of nothing. I write when writing is given to me - the flow. How do I help someone else learn to write on command when I have never learned to do it myself?
And so I sit a quiet vigil with him, when I can. I suggest ideas where I can, but often fail to bite my tongue when he lashes out at me, the helper, just as I once lashed out at my own imperturbable mom. I pray that through James's perseverance, his nascent love of writing will eventually blossom rather than be squashed. I wish for James to find the flow for himself; to experience the joy of sometimes getting the words just right. And I wish, now as ever, as I work through this latest step in my parenting journey, that I still had Mom here to walk this road with me.
Wednesday, February 27, 2013
"No one will write your poems for you..."
Last week at book club, we discussed No Clock in the Forest by Paul Willis. (Aside: If you happen to follow the link to check out the book at Amazon.com, don't be put off by the cover picture. It was the one thing our book club unanimously agreed on - terrible! Not at all right for this book. It almost kept me from reading the book. In fact, the author himself bemoaned this cover art in an interview.) Willis is a professor of English at Westmont College in Santa Barbara, California. His primary writing genre is poetry, although he did write a set of four novels, of which this was the first.
During Book Club, we read and discussed an interview Willis once gave about his writing career, and the line that stuck with me is what I have used for the title of this post - "I finally realized that no one would write my poems for me." Willis was commenting on all of the competing arenas in his life - teaching, committee work, family obligations, cleaning his office, whatever. But then he recognized, a bit profoundly (at least from my perspective), that of all his obligations, what he could write (create) was uniquely his. If he didn't make time to do it himself, it would never happen. That caused him to re-prioritize his time.
As I have mulled that over for a few days, I realized that it spoke into my soul a bit. I haven't been posting much to this blog since the school year started in September, but I have scraps of paper where I have started an idea and never returned to it. I have opening paragraphs for posts written in my head, half of those now forgotten. And no one will write those things for me. I suppose there is hubris in this - who says they need to get written? But I feel them bottled up in me, wanting to be written. So there it is. Perhaps I need to think about prioritizing my own time to allow for me to blog more. And so it is that I find myself typing at 11:15 PM in a quiet house, where everyone else is sleeping. (Although, in a strange meta-blog style, I am writing about how I ought to be writing more. Let's see if the creative juices still flow long enough for me to find any of those random scraps of paper and actually blog.)
During Book Club, we read and discussed an interview Willis once gave about his writing career, and the line that stuck with me is what I have used for the title of this post - "I finally realized that no one would write my poems for me." Willis was commenting on all of the competing arenas in his life - teaching, committee work, family obligations, cleaning his office, whatever. But then he recognized, a bit profoundly (at least from my perspective), that of all his obligations, what he could write (create) was uniquely his. If he didn't make time to do it himself, it would never happen. That caused him to re-prioritize his time.
As I have mulled that over for a few days, I realized that it spoke into my soul a bit. I haven't been posting much to this blog since the school year started in September, but I have scraps of paper where I have started an idea and never returned to it. I have opening paragraphs for posts written in my head, half of those now forgotten. And no one will write those things for me. I suppose there is hubris in this - who says they need to get written? But I feel them bottled up in me, wanting to be written. So there it is. Perhaps I need to think about prioritizing my own time to allow for me to blog more. And so it is that I find myself typing at 11:15 PM in a quiet house, where everyone else is sleeping. (Although, in a strange meta-blog style, I am writing about how I ought to be writing more. Let's see if the creative juices still flow long enough for me to find any of those random scraps of paper and actually blog.)
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