Sandra Tayler's Blog, page 104

Cross-posting broken. Again.

The LJ cross-poster appears to be broken again. I'll trouble shoot it when I have brain cells to spare. Right now I'm using all of them for shipping. You can read details over at onecobble.com

Saw the New Muppet Movie with Howard

There is a moment in the first date after which it is either an only date or the beginning of something more. I sat there in the restaurant, across from this guy I'd first spoken to only 30 minutes before. I'd recognized him as the roommate of a former boyfriend and gone up to introduce myself to him after his performance in a musical play. He'd seen me in the audience and met me in the aisle before I could even make my way to the front of the small auditorium. All I knew was that he seemed attractive and interesting. I was quite glad to join him for dessert. So we went to a place where they served ice cream flambe. We traveled the well worn getting-to-know-you conversational paths until Howard resorted to describing the flaming dessert in order to keep the conversation going. He used large hand gestures and possibly sound effects. The question popped into my head and out of my mouth before I had a chance to filter it:

"Do you like the Muppets?" I asked.

It was the question that changed everything, because it led our conversation firmly away from careful territory and into geekland. Hours of non-stop conversation later the date finally ended, but the relationship did not.

Nineteen years and one month later Howard and I attended a late showing of the new Muppet Movie. It is a show filled with old corniness, new silliness, beloved songs, charming new songs, deep nostalgia for Muppet shows past, and stirring hope for Muppet shows yet to come. I laughed out loud and I cried, sometimes at the same time. Our kids can not possibly love this film as much as Howard and I do. They will completely miss the threads of nostalgia. They will not recognize the subtle details, like the fact that Miss Piggy's outfits and hair styles where homages to Miss Piggy appearances past. Characters arrive without introduction because the film assumes the characters are all familiar. I greeted all these characters with delight, as long-absent friends, for my children they're new. My kids will not instantly tear up by catching a glimpse of the photograph with Kermit and Jim Hensen. They will see this film with modern eyes and they may very well find it lacking. It is a very silly movie which only runs on Muppet logic. This is okay. They will have their own deep wells of nostalgia by the time they reach my age. Those wells will probably be sunk in other places. For tonight I'm just glad there is a new Muppet movie and I'm extra glad that all those years ago I happened to think of Muppets when watching Howard make an imaginary fireball using hand motions.

Mirrored from onecobble.com.

Leaf Play

I asked them to rake the leaves and they did. Sort of.

All the leaves were definitely moved around using a rake. Now they define the boundaries of a labyrinthine house. It was too much fun watching them run along the grass pathways, "sleep" in piles of leaves, and construct new rooms for me to ruin it by stepping outside with trash bags. The weather will be nice again tomorrow. They can keep the house for another day. Besides, I am far too tired from shifting things around in the garage. I did, however, take a couple artsy fall photos because they made me happy.

Mirrored from onecobble.com.

I'll Think About Christmas Later

Last year I was in charge of our church Christmas party. This was a dinner for 300 people with decorations and a program. I had a committee whose help was invaluable, but I did not spread out the work nearly as much as I should have. The party was declared a success by all those who attended. I'm glad they told me, because I was far too frazzled to be able to tell if any of it was working. This year I've been assigned to order and prepare 120 lbs of ham to be served as the main course. (This is 14 whole hams.) In comparison to last year, this sounds easy. Oh I'll still be part of the set up and clean up crew. I'll still be busy all day long on the day of the party (Dec 10). I suspect that my skills and knowledge will be thoroughly tapped to help resolve crises. An event this size always has a crisis of some kind, no matter how well the committee plans. Already we are all glad for the notes I took last year. I wish I'd taken more. I'm going to be quite tired when the party is done, but there is a chance that I'll actually be able to experience some of the party rather than running it the entire time.

It would seem that this Christmas season will be easier than the last, but life doesn't tend to lower the difficulty rating. If the party were all, that would be easy. However I'm also the Scout advancement chair and I've been informed that we will be holding a Scout court of honor three days before the Christmas party (Dec 7). It is my job to do all the reports and paperwork in advance of this event. It is also my job to organize a Board of Review for the scouts who are advancing (On Dec 4). These arrangements are not all that difficult, in theory. I've never done them before and experience tells me that any job I've never done before will present me with unforeseen complications. Naturally I'm feeling a little stressed about it because part of my brain is trying to foresee those complications and prevent them. Only to foresee the unforeseeable is a bit of a paradox. Whee.

This is not all. One day prior to the Boards of Review which are mine to arrange, we'll be hosting a shipping party to send out the calendars (Dec 3). That day will be completely consumed by the shipping of packages. We'll be hosting this event in our house since Dragon's Keep is unavailable on Saturday. This will require a smaller volunteer crew, longer hours, and a complete cleaning of my house in advance of the event. The two days prior to the shipping event (Dec 1 & 2) will be consumed by printing postage and the aforementioned housecleaning. The days prior to that will be focused on helping Howard do all the necessary sketching. Monday November 28 will be the day that Janci and I sort all the invoices, figure out what sorts of boxes we need and then place the order. Before that I need to go into the store reports and make sure I have enough dice sets, Emperor Bundles, and magnet sets assembled. If not, then we'll be using our Thanksgiving weekend to make more. I've run lots of shipping events. It is routine, more or less. Of course each one presents it's very own unforeseen challenges. (See earlier note on the unforeseen.)

On top of all of that, we're cooking pies and rolls for Thanksgiving dinner, one son needs a hair cut, three children need new pants, the leaves need to be raked, there are non-calendar orders to be shipped daily, three pallets of books need to be relocated from our garage to the storage unit, the kids are going to want to put up the Christmas tree, and I want to put up the shelving in the garage so that the food storage can be moved out of my office.

When I line it up, all of it fits. In theory. If I'm working at top efficiency. But if I seem flaky or distracted in the next three weeks, now you know why.

Mirrored from onecobble.com.

Why I Love Jellyfish

I love jellyfish. This is very likely because I have never met one in the wild. Instead I see them through glass with carefully selected lighting to display their beauty.

I did not expect to love jelly fish. In fact I had never given them much thought at all. But then, almost ten years ago, I took five-year-old Link to the Monterey Bay Aquarium. They were hosting a special jellyfish exhibit. We wandered through with our mouths open, completely stunned by the variations in size and the way that the jellyfish moved. I took photographs. They didn't turn out, except one which was only slightly blurry: the back of Link's head against the blue tank next to some other child I didn't know.

It completely failed to show the beauty which captivated Link and kept him sitting still for a very long time.

The jellyfish were beautiful aliens, only they lived right here. But even then, walking through the beauty, I did not know that I would forever love jellyfish. It was not until we came home and my son, who still struggled to speak sentences that were comprehensible to non-family members, could not stop talking about the jellyfish. He drew pictures of jellyfish. He talked to his Kindergarten teacher at length. His small vocabulary doubled in a very short span of time. Something about all those earthly aliens opened a door in his brain and he began to find words. I was so afraid for him at that time. I did not know whether he would be able to manage the challenges of being a teenager or an adult. But by jellyfish light I could see that perhaps he would.

Link is fourteen now. I wrote a post about him yesterday, describing his developing responsibility, reliability, and capability. I can't credit those things to the jellyfish exhibit, they were his all along, but I still remember the strong sense that by seeing the jellyfish Link's world had become larger and his brain grew in response.

So any time I see photos of jellyfish, or see them in an aquarium, I think about how much bigger the world is than I expect. I think about possibility and growth. Most of all, I remember that hope comes when we least expect it.

And that is why today's post over on Light Stalking 44 Incredible Photographs of Jellyfish made me cry.

Mirrored from onecobble.com.

Link's Plans

"Mom, look!" Patch shoved a 3×5 card in front of my face. After adjusting the card to a read-able distance I could see that it was covered in Link's handwriting.

"30 minutes free each day. (After you pass the 3DS test.)"

I looked over at Link who was hovering near with a pleased smile.

"I got tired of them begging to use my 3DS." Link said "So I made a plan. This way they can have a little turn and then if they want more time, they can buy it."

I loved that Link was finding a way to share his device with his younger siblings, but that last bit sounded like a profit-from-siblings scheme. Not so. Link's plan was to take all the money and put it into a box which saved up for an additional 3DS for our family. He had even made a special box for this purpose. I got a glimpse of the the 3DS test. It was basic care and maintenance questions. Link was, quite reasonably, making sure that his siblings knew the necessary rules to make sure the device does not get broken. Link had seen a problem, planned a solution, and carried it out.

This is not the first case of Link making plans. The same inertia which I struggle against when trying to get him up in the morning or making him do an unpleasant chore, carries him far when he is moving to complete a plan of his own devising. In the past several months he's started putting himself to bed, organizing his own school supplies, and doing his own scout planning. It is strange to see the very personality traits that I worried about turning into strengths. He doesn't have the in-your-face personality that some of my other kids possess, you don't picture Link heading out to take on the whole world, but I have no doubt that once Link decides to go someplace, he'll get there. That's want he does. Quietly, calmly, happily, while no one is paying attention, he sets out and gets things done.

We do still have conflicts. Sometimes Link's plans require a particular type of cooperation from siblings who want to make up their own games. Other times life requires an alteration to the plans that Link has made, then he slows to an unwilling crawl until he can re-plan. But for the most part, my younger kids and most of Link's friends are happy to let Link plan the games. He's good at making games.

Mirrored from onecobble.com.

Some Days Exist to be Askew

I dreaded today even before it began. "Dreaded" might be too strong a word, particularly since there was no concrete reason for me to go to bed unsure I wanted to deal with the day to follow. The day is mostly gone. Nothing horrible happened. I'm just swimming in a sea of things-to-do. I have orders to file until the calendars come back from the printer. There are other orders which need to be shipped right away. The calendar needs a last few flourishes before it is done with the design stage of its existence. Those are my job. I was a volunteer for a 5th grade art class where half the kids were finishing a project involving multi-colored paint. The other half were part way into a project including drawing with white on black construction paper. Unfortunately the white colored pencils were no where to be found, so I applied a last-minute substitute of chalk. Smeary, smeary chalk. I love teaching concepts with a clear lesson plan. This time I was insufficiently prepared and it all felt chaotic. Then there was a child with an emotional crisis, a conference with a teacher, and we've yet to even tackle homework time. The good news is that the teacher agrees with me that grades are a unit of measure and not a life goal.

I think this evening may require cookies. Not because things are bad. They aren't. Nothing in front of me is impossible. There is just a lot of it and I'm sleep deprived. Cookies will help.

Mirrored from onecobble.com.

Casting New Light

Kiki and Link both had a youth activity. Patch had an awards ceremony to attend and Howard planned to take him. This left Gleek and I at loose ends. I briefly considered taking Gleek along to Patch's event, but it is hard to be ten and see other people honored when you are not. Also a big room filled with people is guaranteed to wind Gleek up into a high energy state and then there would be frustration with a high probability of scolding. I wanted for her to have something special, just for her. However I also knew that if that if I preempted all her homework, there would be stress in the morning. So we needed special and routine all rolled into one. Everyone else departed leaving Gleek and I alone.

I consulted Gleek to see what she would like to do. Or rather, I spoke at Gleek while she fiddled with a bean bag. She tossed it to me. On a whim I tossed it back. Toss. Catch. Toss. Catch. It must have been one of the earliest games in the existence of humanity, yet it was oddly satisfying because I was feeling mellow and not inclined to run around getting things done. The game was simple, but Gleek and I were together, facing each other, both of us giving the game our full attention. She began perfecting a two handed fling. I began catching and throwing with only my left hand. I'm not particularly dextrous with my left, so I loved that magic moment when my brain somehow calculated exactly where to place my hand so that the beanbag would thunk right into the middle of my palm. Then I could, almost casually, curl my fingers around it. Catch.

Our evening needed something simple, like the game of catch. Something that would slow down both Gleek and I, because we are both prone to running too fast for too long.

"Pioneers used to play with beanbags." Gleek said. She has been studying US History with a teacher for whom the subject is a passion. Her class has been grouped into Indian tribes, then into European immigrants, and now into colonies. In the coming months she will live through bits of revolutionary war, western expansion, civil war, industrial revolution, world wars, cold war, civil rights, and near to modern day. Gleek has been thriving on this diet of history. I keep hearing random bits about how life was in the past. There is a longing in Gleek's voice as she tells me these things. She admires these times when life was slower. I think because she struggles to slow down in the face of modern information overload.

Between one catch and the next I knew what we needed.

"We're going to have Pioneer homework time." I said. "We'll turn out all the lights and do your math by candle light."

Gleek's face brightened into a smile. "I'll go put on my pioneer clothes!" and she dashed to find her costume.

Candle light imparts a hush to the room it inhabits. The edges of the room were dim, so Gleek and I had to draw close in order to see the words on the page. Without declaring it to be so, both of us dropped our voices quieter. Subconsciously we only needed to fill the lit space, not all the way to the dark corners. Gleek worked her way through the math happily. She only paused once when she remembered the candles she'd made with her Grandma. Those were fetched and lit as well. In moments of conversation we determined that a Pioneer Homework hour also needed and accompanying Pioneerish dinner. My original plan of buying Wendy's did not fit with candles. After the math was done we hitched the horses to the wagon (my van) and drove over to the market (a grocery store.)

Gleek swished her pioneer skirt as she carried her basket through the aisles of the store. Her apron was tied neatly around her waist and her bonnet dangled down her back in best Laura Ingalls Wilder fashion. We were both carrying baskets instead of pushing a cart because Gleek deemed this to be more historically correct. Pizza, hot pockets, and yogurt were all rejected as foods that a pioneer would not have. Gleek's desire for historical correctness was sorely challenged by the display of oreo cookies, but history won. We reached the check out stand with Swedish meatballs (some pioneers were Swedish), broccoli, and a pumpkin pie for sharing. At the last minute a desire for bubble gum won out over history, but it was stashed away to be consumed later.

We came home to a dark house and re-lit the candles we'd blown out. Gleek read while I prepared the food. Then we ate it together. I warned Gleek that Pioneer time would be over when the others came home. I wanted to forestall potential conflicts. Kiki and Link blew in the front door with a draft of cold air. They were startled by the candles, but urged us to keep them. "It's nice." Link said. "can we do it again tomorrow?" Patch agreed when he came home. Snack and bed were accomplished far more quietly than usual. All of us responded to the change in lighting. It isn't something we can do every night, but I'm definitely stashing the idea into my bag of tricks for future use. I could use more lovely candlelit evenings.

Mirrored from onecobble.com.

Patch's Multiplication

Third grade means memorizing multiplication tables. This has been true since my own schooling. It was true for my three older kids. Now it is true for Patch. This particular scholastic challenge has been hard for him. He's in a more academic program than my other kids were at his age. The measurement of this skill is very results-focused, five-minute tests of 80 problems each. Patch's teacher offered a new set of markers as a prize for anyone who makes their way to 12s before Christmas break. Unfortunately Patch got stuck at threes for several tests in a row. He lost confidence and began to feel bad about himself and about school. He alternately declared that markers didn't matter and cried because he didn't believe he could earn them.

Presented with this situation, I had several choices:

1. Confront Patch's teacher about her expectations, be angry with the requirements that were making my son feel sad and reject the system that imposed them.

2. Negotiate with Patch's teacher to lower the bar so that he didn't have to struggle so hard.

3. Step up my game and Patch's practice to help him pass the requirements.

A conference with Patch's teacher resulted in a combination of two and three. She would give him a little bit of extra time and a few extra mistakes allowed. I would work with him every day to help him be prepared.

We start with flash cards. This is a fairly standard method for teaching multiplication facts to kids. As I held up cards for Patch and he sometimes struggled for answers, I pondered how complex this seemingly simple task actually is. Patch looks at a card and his visual centers interpret the reflected light into an image. The language center of his brain translates that image into symbols which have concepts attached. Patch then has to access his memory to find the correct answer to go with the presented symbols. This memory then has to be translated into words so that Patch can speak the answer. All of this must occur in mere seconds in order to get through 80 problems.

I realized that we were practicing verbal answers, but that the test was written. We needed to be practicing that final translation step both written and spoken. I devised a writing game where instead of answering out loud, Patch wrote the answers on a white board. Then we printed out math facts practice sheets so he could take practice tests. I sat next to him as he wrote, glancing from timer to his pencil. Patch cruised along smoothly until the moment when his brain did not instantly supply an answer. Patch shifted in his seat, rubbed his eye, tapped his pencil. It was as if he was attempting to jog loose the memory by physical action. Sometimes these fidgets led to longer distractions. I once watched him spend a full minute with his pencil poised over a single problem because his mind went off on some tangent of thought.

It was so very tempting to switch to the angry option. We worked and Patch struggled. Threes forever. In the middle of one practice, Patch declared he hated school. My heart sank. I fumed at the seeming arbitrary measure of 80 problems in five minutes. I groused a bit to Howard outside of Patch's hearing and he pointed out that the speed of recall was in indicator that the facts were stored in a permanent and easily accessible memory location. This was the point of memorizing the problems at all. I swallowed my grumbles and faced the next practice session.

It was that next practice session when everything clicked. Patch, who had routinely only been completing 40-70 problems in five minutes, sat down and rocketed through 80 in under four. "Wow!" I said and gave him a high five.

Patch smiled back at me. "I just found the right way to set my brain. I just told myself I could do it."

Far more important than storing math facts in memory, Patch learned how to focus his mind. Someday there will be something he wants very much and getting it will be easier because he knows how to focus and persevere. The pattern continued through fours, fives, and sixes. We practice, practice, practice, it seems impossible and then click. It is easy. But even during the impossible-seeming parts we know that it will eventually work. Patch still does not rejoice when I declare practice time, but he heads off to school happy each day because he knows he can succeed even when the task is difficult.

Mirrored from onecobble.com.

In the Space after Midnight

My eyes were open, measuring the various darknesses of the room. When last I'd looked at the clock it had told me 12:45. Moments had ticked past since then, enough that I suspected the clock of reading 1 am. Howard shifted next to me. Gleek sniffled from the small kid bed on the floor. Her hand pulled my arm fractionally further over the edge of the bed. I was not the only one who'd had trouble with sleep. A transfer to my room and my hand to hold were enough to secure a ten year old into sleep. Unconsciousness was more elusive for me.

Gleek's hand was rough against my palm. Hers was a hand much used for monkey bars and tree climbing. I'd felt the strength of her fingers when she first gripped my hand in the darkness. The grip became loose as drowsiness claimed her. In a moment I could let go, my final parental duty of the night complete. I held on for just a minute longer. Her hand was almost the size of my own. Some wisp of memory reminded me of the time when her hands were small and soft. It was long ago and while the memory of that little hand carried tenderness, I had no desire to re-traverse all the years and challenges which had led to her hand being strong. I let her hand slide softly through my fingers and rolled over to contemplate my ceiling. The lights had been out long enough that the glow in the dark stars had faded. All our bedrooms have stars on them, now aged to the point that many of them fly free of their own accord. It is not unusual for me to step through a darkened bedroom and spot fallen stars on the carpet. A stubborn few still stick to the ceiling, or so I assumed. I squinted my eyes, imagining that a few spots still held a faint glow.

Mostly I lay with my eyes closed and follow the tracks of the thoughts in my brain. They ran over the pre-order of calendars and financial calculations based upon quantities ordered. There were side tracks into Patch's multiplication memorization, Kiki's art project, and Gleek's colony report. Their homework was not mine to do or to track. Yet I did. I was not sure how to stop myself from mentally marking when these things should be done and nudging my children if I thought the work should be progressing. Then, of course, I worried that my habit of unconsciously organizing would mean that they never learned to organize for themselves. I could spend days spinning myself in circles of parental failure. I was supposed to be sleeping. Drifting to sleep would land me on the shores of morning with more energy and a mind ready to tackle the challenges of the day. Sleep did not come.

I swung my feet softly over the edge of the bed and placed them carefully on the floor, off to one side of Gleek. I wrapped my robe around my shoulders and padded my way through the house. Our cat had indicated a desire to go outdoors just as everyone went to bed. Perhaps she was ready to come back in. I opened the front door quietly. The bolt clacked loudly in the quiet and then the hinges creaked.

"Kitty?" I called, my breath misting in the nigh frozen air. I pitched my voice low, wanting the cat to hear me, not wanting to disturb any human inhabitants of my house and cul de sac. All was still in the light of the street lamp. Only the glitter of frost on the fallen leaves seemed to lend motion to the tableau. I clacked the door closed and returned to my kitchen.

If not for knowing I was needed in the morning, I would have relished the silence of post-midnight. My people were present, nearby and safe, but they didn't need anything from me. I'd assigned nothing to myself for that hour. Assignments wouldn't return until 6:45 am. Part of me longed to just stay awake, to expand into the quiet, read a book, watch a movie. Instead I stretched my limbs, grabbed a snack, and returned to the warmth of bed. Sleep waited for me there.

Mirrored from onecobble.com.