Kathleen M. Basi's Blog, page 87
February 12, 2013
It’s Here!
Oh, what it takes to get a not-quite-four-year-old to take a usable picture…
…while the baby invokes his Right To Wiggle All Over Mommy’s Lap Any Time She Sits Upon The Floor….
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Oh, there they are!
This Little Light of Mine: Living the Beatitudes, coming soon from Liguori Publications!
The point of this book is to take faith, which we tend to approach from an internal, heart-and-mind perspective, and bring it down to the intensely, mundanely practical level: the actions and the words of the everyday. Are you ever going to kill anyone? Not likely! But that doesn’t mean you’ve got the 5th commandment covered. It has implications for the way we interact with others every day. Unlike my other two books, I really wrote This Little Light of Mine with adults’ faith formation in mind as much as that of their children. During the penitential and high seasons, we’re at least nominally focused on religious topics. The rest of the year is make-or-break time for our spiritual growth. During ordinary times, we’ll either choose to be committed, or we’ll slip into “me first, God when I have the time and inclination” mentality. I wrote this book to help you think about the specific actions that underlie the religious concepts we talk about all the time.
February 11, 2013
What I Learned From A Kindergarten SpEd Re-Eval
Carousel birthday Cake, a la Mommy
About a month ago, Julianna’s school finished her “re-evaluation.” This is required every three years under the IDEA, presumably to ensure that kids who are receiving expensive special ed services still need them.
Julianna entered the mid-kindergarten eval with a diagnosis of “young child with developmental delay,” a dx that does not carry into the elementary/secondary years (for obvious reasons). So, beginning mid-fall and lasting until Christmas or thereabouts, she underwent a battery of assessments for language, behavior, speech, motor, and academic skills. Even an IQ test, about which we were intensely curious. Hearing the number 60 was a bit of a reality check; it’s one thing to recognize that your child is and will always be delayed; it’s another to see it quantified. Somewhere deep inside, you keep hoping your kid will pull out a 69 and almost squeeze into the “normal” range.
In any case, the end result of this re-eval was–wait for it–an IEP meeting in which we went over the report and incorporated the results into a new plan. Ten people in the room, copies for everyone–nauseating amounts of paper, because the god Privacy forbids electronic dissemination. We moved quickly, with many interruptions caused by the three children in the room (one of whom was trying to eat every toy block in sight), so it wasn’t until the formal report came that I sat down to really read and process it in depth.
Apple, straws, peanut butter & animal crackers = a great, edible carousel birthday party craft.
When your child goes off to school, you automatically lose a certain intimacy. No matter what you do, you can never quite pry out of them what their day is like now. Their routines are unremarkable to them, so they don’t see anything to share. You ask “What did you learn in science today?” and you hear: “We didn’t have science.” You know they must have, they just didn’t recognize it as such, but without a beginning point there’s no way to pry the layers back and understand exactly what’s going on in the hours he or she is away from you.
If it’s that hard with a verbal child, imagine the dearth of information when your child doesn’t communicate by speech at all, or at least, only at the most surface level. So this report was really enlightening. It didn’t tell me about the school days or the routines, but every so often a nugget would pop out that I recognized so clearly, I could picture the entire scene:
“It was often unclear whether she was simply repeating the presented words rather than making an attempt to respond to the items.” Check.
“When asked to write numerals in sequence, Julianna wrote the number 1. When asked to write other numbers, she wrote the number 1 again.” Ouch.
“Julianna would sometimes point to several pictures on the page and was reminded that she could only point to one. This test was given over 2 sessions as she would start pointing randomly.” And giggling with a sly Miss Charming look on her face, no doubt.
“Julianna appears to enjoy socializing” (you think?) “and will wave hi and bye to many adults and peers.” Yup.
“She is a risk-taker.” Uh, yeah.
Concurrent with this is the formal discernment by the Catholic school administration as to whether they can realistically serve Julianna there. I am so torn on the subject. I want her in an environment where faith formation is “in the air,” and I want to have one PTA, one fundraiser, one school calendar to deal with.
And yet…she really needs speech intervention every day, and I will have to transport her myself (barring carpools, but you can’t count on that.) The public school has been wonderful–I love all the people. Her speech therapist calls her “chickadee,” and it makes me all warm and gooey inside. Her para and her teacher are particularly wonderful, and all the necessary infrastructure is right there. Her classmates are incredibly sweet to her. It has been a wholly positive experience, and even considering moving her feels disloyal.
It’s a good position to be in, so don’t take these reflections as complaint. But this is a part of the special needs parenting process, so I share it for the benefit of…well, whoever needs it.
I am being paged for a game of Spot-It. Bowing out for the day.
February 9, 2013
Sunday Snippets
Another weekend, another night picking up Michael’s newest mess, and another get-together of Catholic bloggers at RAnn’s This, That and The Other Thing.
My posts this week:
So There Was A Point, After All (a reflection on classic literature)
Kids, Kids and Everyone Else’s Fault (7Qt)
And a fiction short, on the prompt “martyr”
February 8, 2013
Kids, Kids, and Everybody Else’s Fault: A 7QT Post
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That, incidentally, is a space shuttle tire from the Shuttle Columbia. Co-ol.
“Mommy,” Alex said the other day on the way home from piano lessons, and then paused. “Huh. I guess I’m old enough to start calling you ‘Mom’ and ‘Dad’ now.”
Nicholas, AKA The Parrot, repeated Alex’s words almost word for word. Usually it drives Alex insane and causes a great deal of shouting, but today he ignored it. “I’ve been old enough for a while, I guess,” he went on, “but I like calling you Mommy and Daddy.”
“I do too,” I said. “That’s why I haven’t been in a hurry to tell you to call me Mom.”
Beginning that night, guess who started calling me “Mom” instead of “Mommy?” Here’s a hint. H’s not yet four, and his name begins with N and ends with “icholas.”
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And he’s not just calling me “Mom” automatically, without thought. No, he says it over and over. “Mom, I’m gonna use the toilet. Mom. Mom. Mom, I’m gonna use the toilet, Mom!” It’s clear he’s trying very hard to get me to react. So far I’ve managed not to let on that I’ve noticed. I’m hoping if he doesn’t get a rise out of me, he’ll cease & desist.
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It’s a busy day today, and a busy weekend. I think everyone in the entire city is having birthday parties. Including us….
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The big day itself: last Saturday, sharing a birthday celebration with her great grandmother (after whom she was named!)
Julianna’s having a birthday party tomorrow for her school classmates. You know, when you have a child with special needs, you’re always on tenterhooks, worrying that she’s going to be made fun of or passed over. And when she’s nonverbal–we can’t even have her talking up her own party, or find out from other kids who thinks they’re coming. So we’re entirely dependent on RSVPs, and if you’ve given a party int he last few years you surely know no one RSVPs anymore. I was really worried that she was going to have a bust of a party, but we actually have six classmates who have responded now, so I’m happy.
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Her celebration has extended a full week, with presents and cards arriving late and multiple celebrations. She’s really cute when she sings “Happy birthday,” but I have to admit that on the forty-seventh repetition it’s wearing a bit thin. Just a bit.
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On a less cute subject: After Sandy Hook I didn’t really watch the news, but yesterday, in preparation for an article I’ve been assigned, I spent a good hour reading news reports about it. It was horrible. I spent the entire time bawling. And for several hours after, I was a lot more cognizant of what a blessing my kids are.
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Speaking of Sandy Hook, and the various bickering going on ever since: does it bother anyone else that no one’s sacred cow could possibly be responsible? Schwarzenegger & Tarantino say don’t blame violent movies. The game makers say it’s not video games’ fault. Gun lobby says it’s not the guns’ fault. Some people want to say a weak ATF is the only problem. Mental health advocates say we can’t warn the public because of those sacred privacy regs. Essentially, everyone says “leave my baby alone, pick on someone else.” If no one and nothing is to blame, then what we’re saying is that we’re completely powerless, we can’t do anything at all, we just have to put up with twenty kids getting killed for no reason at all. Unconscionable, people. News flash: the only solution to a violent culture is one that address everything violent. Everyone is going to have to give a bit, or it’ll all just keep happening. (Read that post, btw. We all have a responsibility in this.)
Well, now that I have that off my chest: have a great weekend!
February 6, 2013
Fiction: Martyr
Martyrs Statue (Photo credit: jiangkeren)
Carlo was waiting at the ninth hole with his business partner and his parish priest when a boy came out from the clubhouse with a slip of paper. “Allison?” asked James, seeing his expression, while Father O’Keefe circled his ball, trying to puzzle a clean shot out of the worst setup the longtime trio had ever seen.
Carlo nodded. Was it so much to ask her to leave him alone for the length of a golf game? “She wants me to invite you both to dinner.”
The hesitation was so slight, he might have imagined it. Then the big man smiled and pulled out a silk handkerchief to mop his dripping face. “Your wife’s the best cook I know. I’m not about to turn that down.”
Carlo managed a weak smile. “Wonderful.”
Fr. O’Keefe muttered suddenly; both men turned to him. “That’s a Hail Mary shot if I ever saw one,” called James.
The priest spared them a withering glance. “Oh, ye of little faith!”
“There’s no way you’re getting clear of that tree in one shot.”
O’Keefe, who had returned to his shot, swiveled back. “So sure of yourself! You’re a betting man, James. If I hit this shot, you come to church Sunday.”
James laughed and folded his arms. “So…how’s she doing, anyway?” he murmured. “Since…you know.”
“Since Jeremy died, you mean.” Carlo liked and respected his partner, but the man’s discomfort had been on full display ever since the Army brought the news of his son’s death. But Carlo reined in his irritation, allowing only a twitch in his jaw that could be interpreted as grief instead of anger. “She’s fine,” he lied. “Much better now.”
Actually, she barely left the house. She was so needy he sometimes considered making up a vineyard emergency just to get a breath of fresh air. He hadn’t, because she had been right about him: Jeremy’s entire life, Carlo’s focus had been vines and wines, not family. His regret on that account could not be articulated. So he tolerated her demands, her long-suffering resentment, and her perpetual sense of wounded, victimization.
But that didn’t mean he had to like it.
A club swooshed and contacted the ball with a satisfying clink. Carlo and James shaded their eyes against the bright sun and watched Father O’Keefe’s shot arc gracefully into the air, splitting the gap between two branches on its way to a soft, two-bounce landing on the green.
James whistled. “That was one in a million, Father.”
The priest smiled smugly. “A little help from the Communion of Saints never goes awry. Look what a prayer from a martyr or two can do!”
James laughed. “Nice try, Father. You’re not getting me in the pew just because you had a lucky shot.” He slapped the other man on the arm and went for his bag.
Martyr, thought Carlo. Yes, that was the perfect word. He shared his bed every night with a martyr.
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Returning today to Carlo & Alison, whose story I’m exploring from different angles as I try to figure out a structure and plot for it. Other pieces in the series (unconnected snippets, not a coherent narrative):
February 5, 2013
So There Was A Point, After All
English: Portrait of American writer Flannery-O’Connor from 1947. Picture is cropped and edited from bigger picture: Robie with Flannery 1947.jpg (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
I don’t know about you, but I loathed much of the reading we did in English classes. I know writers are supposed to revere Hemingway, but my exposure to him turned me off him forever. What was the point of that story? Man exhausts himself in an attempt to catch a fish, which gets eaten before he gets back to land. Point.Less. I remember finding To Kill A Mockingbird mildly interesting, but very depressing and again, ultimately without a clear development of the characters.
I did enjoy The Scarlet Letter, O Pioneers and The Great Gatsby. Shakespeare was a battle whether comic or tragic. To this day I can’t shake the mildly heretic suspicion that mostly people quote him because it makes them sound intellectual.
Because of this high school experience, I’ve been leery of literary fiction. As I’ve delved into the writing, I’ve tried to read some literary short stories, because that constitutes the bulk of the market for short fiction. But frequently I’ve ended up rolling my eyes, because–again–I couldn’t see the point. In too many of them, I don’t see characters evolving. They start in a depressing place, and they end in the same darned depressing place.
Lately, however, I’ve been reading Flannery O’Connor’s short stories, and I’ve realized that the point is sometimes larger, and the character’s very lack of growth illustrates it. In The Geranium, the POV character is an old man who is bitterly, inflexibly racist. His only joy is a geranium that sits on the windowsill of the apartment across the alley, and it’s a pretty unattractive joy, loaded down with bitterness and judgment. He never changes. At the end of the story a black man has kindly helped him up the stairs he can’t handle on his own, but the old man is unmoved. He’s still angry, bitter, loaded down with bitterness and racism. And the geranium is broken. The story seems pointless until you realize she’s trying to get at the ugliness of racism, the way it kills the soul.
There is a point, but I don’t think I would have gotten it in high school.
There are moments of heart-catching beauty in Flannery O’Connor’s writing, like this:
“He saw half of the moon five feet away in his shaving mirror, paused as if it were waiting for his permission to enter. It rolled forward and cast a dignifying light on everything. … the face on the moon was a grave one. It gazed on the room and out to the window where it floated over the horse stall and appeared to contemplate itself with the look of a young man who sees his old age before him.” (“The Artificial Nigger,” originally published1955. Now there’s a word I never, ever expected to type.)
Can you say personification? And it’s a foreshadowing, too, because throughout this story she paints the old man and his grandson as mirrors of each other. I don’t have room for an in-depth analysis, but this story was eye-opening for me. You should go read it.
See, I set out to read O’Connor because she was a devout Catholic and her faith defined her writing. I wanted to see how she accomplished that while still writing great literature. But it seemed puzzling, because religion makes so little appearance in these stories. This one, however, ends with a moment of truth in which the grandfather, having pulled a Peter-in-the-courtyard moment on his grandson, recognizes his own brokenness. Recognizes mercy, and reflects on it. And I realized: if you try to write characters who are good people and talk about faith, they’re almost guaranteed to come across as preachy. But write from the POV of really unsavory characters, characters who do and think things that are downright nasty, and those points you want to make seem to make themselves. (Well, probably not, but that’s the artistry at work there; blood sweat and tears made to look effortless.)
After all this, a look at a summary of The Old Man and the Sea makes me realize maybe Hemingway did have a point to make, after all–one about family and persistence and a more modest kind of heroism born of desperation. It made me think–gasp–maybe I need to go read Hemingway again, after all.
February 4, 2013
Mysteries
I’m in awe of this picture. But this child is driving me nuts. In fact, oddly enough, he was driving me nuts when the picture was taken, too.
There are many mysteries in the world. Like my computer, which for some reason decided recently to require Control-Alt-Delete before giving me my login screen, after eighteen months of bringing it up automatically. The fact that Java has to be given permission every single morning to “make changes to my computer” since I downloaded an upgrade a few weeks ago. Or the fact that Word Press suddenly, without warning or explanation, began defaulting to HTML instead of “what-you-see-is-what-you-get.”
Or Michael, who suddenly has decided to get up three to five times a night because he’s thirsty. Or maybe just because he woke up. Sometimes a quick drink of water is all it takes and he plops back down and goes back to sleep. Other times, he feels it necessary to work himself into a lather requiring a snuggle and some patting before he’ll consent to take a drink–in your arms. Other times, you have to forcibly shove the glass between his lips in the middle of a shriek, and his little teeth clamp down on it before he realizes it’s there.
Mornings are turning into a real test of my patience. This morning he woke me up for the day at 4:40 a.m. for his third drink of the night. He went back to sleep; I did not. I got up at 5:15 to go to Jazzercise, and upon returning he greeted me with nearly an hour of solid complaining, whining and crying, broken only when, after great writhing and protesting, he finally consented to nurse for a few minutes. Otherwise, he was yelling at me. For a solid hour. No matter what I did, it was wrong. And woe behold me if I so much as think about helping Julianna get ready for school.
He completely ignored the stop-gap snack I gave him while the scrambled eggs were under preparation. It’s so much more pleasant for everyone to SCREAM THE ENTIRE TIME. Perhaps it would not shock you to discover that a mom who is a) sick, b) couldn’t get to sleep last night, c) was awakened three times, and d) has been screamed at for an hour, did NOT keep her cool at breakfast.
Not a terrific start to the week.
Minor irritants, but irritating because they are irrational. Irrationality drives me nuts. Not one of these annoyances is insurmountable. All of them have simple work-arounds: a quick click, a nap for Mommy. But they mess with my sense of control. The computer things seem too petty to waste time trying to figure out. Mostly I just wish the software geniuses would quit messing with things to justify their paycheck. And the baby? Oh, brother. I can only repeat my mantra:
I am not a toddler mom. And that’s okay.
This too, shall pass.
Insert other annoying, not-helpful cliche.
Shut computer off. Take nap. Practice flute. Work on song text. Grocery shop. Teach. Shower? Oh, who am I kidding? No way this is going to be a productive day.
February 3, 2013
Sunday Snippets
Another weekend and another gathering of Catholic bloggers over at RAnn’s This, That and the Other Thing for Sunday Snippets: A Catholic Carnival.
This week’s posts:
Not Yet, one of those bittersweet moments as babyhood passes
Still a couple of days left to enter the giveaway for Sarah Reinhard’s & my Lenten books!
My 7QT post is about Julianna’s rosary kit, Nicholas’ church shoes, and more
February 1, 2013
7QT
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It’s going to be one of Those Days. I can already tell.
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First: have you entered Sarah Reinhard’s and my giveaway for a set of our Lenten books, Welcome Risen Jesus and Bring Lent To Life? Sarah is graciously featuring me today on her 7qt post.
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So…Julianna’s grandparents gave her a rosary kit for Christmas. This week we started working on putting it together.
Whatever, Mom.
One of the mystery beads
I really like the setup of this kit–it has cards for each mystery, and Julianna loves cards. Call me dense, Mme. Cradle Catholic, but as I explained each mystery to her, for the first time I realized that the mysteries of the rosary are a compact story of Jesus’ entire life. How cool is that, for kids? Yes, I know, the rest of you figured this out long ago. Slap an L on my forehead, and let’s move on.
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While we’re on the subject of kids and church, this is what I saw when I happened to glance down at Nicholas in the middle of the first reading last Sunday:
Your eyes do not deceive you. That is TWO, not matching, not-even-same-size right shoes. Guess which parent put the shoes on that morning? (Hint: NOT me.) I pointed it out to Christian and we both laughed until we cried. Missed that Scripture reading!
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Miss Julianna turns six years old tomorrow. Let’s have a blog challenge, shall we? How many “happy birthday” comments can we get for her?
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Now I’m coming up blank for 6 and 7. Actually I have a rant I want to share, but I can’t decide if it’s a good idea or not, so if I do I’ll put it in its own post next week.
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My children are bickering, so I throw up my hands and quit.
