As might be expected, the subsistence issues dominate my thinking. We have plenty to update on homeschool terms, on gardening terms, but everything feels so up in the air. Well, everything IS up in the air, and it's a pretty harsh damper on my writing efforts.
Still here. P-daddy has a couple of offers but they involve changing our lives pretty drastically. We're still figuring it out.
Showing posts with label loss. Show all posts
Showing posts with label loss. Show all posts
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Friday, May 01, 2009
Monday, April 27, 2009
The company lost the contract
I don't want to talk about it, but I immediately got four people asking about the blog when I closed it down like a crab darting into his shell. It's just easier to do it this way. I don't know much of anything at this point.
Friday, March 06, 2009
Brittle
Spring is beginning to show itself in the PNW. The trees are bu
dding in the far away sky, and pollen now dusts our cars each morning like facepowder from the hands of a toddler. Writing has taken a back seat to teaching my six year old to read, planning our garden efforts and clearing out, clearing out, clearing out. I feel like we're forever purging.
The economy has not directly hit our interests, but we do have it looming over us. Until April, I will be wondering in the darker recesses of my mind whether this garden is even something we should be concerning ourselves with. One of my favorite garden trinkets, thou
gh, is a garden plaque which references the inherent optimism in planting a garden. So I will plant the garden and expect to harvest the fruits of our labours in one fashion or another. The Dalai Lama says "If you have fear of some pain or suffering, you should examine whether there is anything you can do about it. If you can, there is no need to worry about it; if you cannot do anything, then there is also no need to worry." This I am taking to heart and consider it every day.
So while I mean what I say about worry, and while I have in most ways kept a pleasant outlook for the sake of my health and my children's daily life, I still find myself depleted. It takes a lot of energy to keep the sadness and despair at bay. I look around at the state of things locally, where every day I see a new shell where a business had recently thrived; where I read of homeschoolers in common groups putting their children in school so the mothers can take minimum wage jobs so the family can keep the lights on; where people I personally know are losing their home and lying to the kids about why they are moving, in yet another parental attempt to preserve something of a happy childhood for them; it all presses in and makes maintaining a status quo work.
I am not depressed or overtly anxious, but I remain contemplative and far more serious than I would otherwise like to be, with a contrasting and overriding sense of complete gratitude for what we do have, and the options that stretch before us come what may. There has been plenty for me to write about, to share, but I have this sense of survivor's guilt, as if to share it all in my typical blithe revelry would be disrespectful to the many who are hurting so much.
So there it is. The birds are singing, the days are lengthening and I will plug along with a spirit of work, to drive away the idleness of hands that might otherwise make a painful spirit.
dding in the far away sky, and pollen now dusts our cars each morning like facepowder from the hands of a toddler. Writing has taken a back seat to teaching my six year old to read, planning our garden efforts and clearing out, clearing out, clearing out. I feel like we're forever purging.The economy has not directly hit our interests, but we do have it looming over us. Until April, I will be wondering in the darker recesses of my mind whether this garden is even something we should be concerning ourselves with. One of my favorite garden trinkets, thou
gh, is a garden plaque which references the inherent optimism in planting a garden. So I will plant the garden and expect to harvest the fruits of our labours in one fashion or another. The Dalai Lama says "If you have fear of some pain or suffering, you should examine whether there is anything you can do about it. If you can, there is no need to worry about it; if you cannot do anything, then there is also no need to worry." This I am taking to heart and consider it every day.So while I mean what I say about worry, and while I have in most ways kept a pleasant outlook for the sake of my health and my children's daily life, I still find myself depleted. It takes a lot of energy to keep the sadness and despair at bay. I look around at the state of things locally, where every day I see a new shell where a business had recently thrived; where I read of homeschoolers in common groups putting their children in school so the mothers can take minimum wage jobs so the family can keep the lights on; where people I personally know are losing their home and lying to the kids about why they are moving, in yet another parental attempt to preserve something of a happy childhood for them; it all presses in and makes maintaining a status quo work.
I am not depressed or overtly anxious, but I remain contemplative and far more serious than I would otherwise like to be, with a contrasting and overriding sense of complete gratitude for what we do have, and the options that stretch before us come what may. There has been plenty for me to write about, to share, but I have this sense of survivor's guilt, as if to share it all in my typical blithe revelry would be disrespectful to the many who are hurting so much.
So there it is. The birds are singing, the days are lengthening and I will plug along with a spirit of work, to drive away the idleness of hands that might otherwise make a painful spirit.
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
So the adventures just keep going--
P-daddy was rough this weekend, but I thought it was just the dumps over putting down our dog. Turns out he has some flu-like thing going on. This is day two in bed. And G-girl has a cracked rib from a graceful incident yesterday afternoon. Between the two of them, I called my Wednesday babysitting appointment and told them I couldn't do it. I feel really bad about the last minute notice for them, but I really didn't expect my husband to be in bed again this morning.
I'm going to hibernate in our bubble today. And spray lots of lysol!
I'm going to hibernate in our bubble today. And spray lots of lysol!
Monday, February 16, 2009
The Rainbow Bridge
The Rainbow Bridge
Just this side of heaven is a place called Rainbow Bridge. When a beloved pet dies, that animal goes to Rainbow Bridge. There are meadows and hills for all of our special friends so they can run and play together. There is plenty of food, water and sunshine, and our friends are warm and comfortable.
All the animals that had been ill and old are restored to health and vigor. Those who were hurt or maimed are made whole and strong again, just as we remember them in our dreams of days and times gone by. The animals are happy and content, except for one small thing; they each miss someone very special to them, who had to be left behind.
They all run and play together, but the day comes when one suddenly stops and looks into the distance. His bright eyes are intent. His eager body quivers. Suddenly he begins to run from the group, flying over the green grass, his legs carrying him faster and faster.
You have been spotted, and when you and your special friend finally meet, you cling together in joyous reunion, never to be parted again. The happy kisses rain upon your face; your hands again caress the beloved head, and you look once more into the trusting eyes of your pet, so long gone from your life but never absent from your heart.
Then you cross Rainbow Bridge together.... 
Presley is now playing at the Rainbow Bridge with Jake (above) and Shadow.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
The Sun is Shining Again
And the brilliance of the sky is bouncing off the fresh snow. :::bang head::: It snowed all day yesterday. All day. From the gloom of dawn until the sun began to set, it snowed in one degree or another. Thankfully it didn't begin to stick until nearly lunch time, so we only accumulated about 4, wet inches. While it's pretty, I am ordering from seed catalogs and thinking fondly of getting my fingernails really dirty. The snow wasn't welcome.
I will just say the month has been rough. It's been a morass of emotional acrobatics and physical exhaustion. It's not all been bad, by any means, but it has been tough going. During one week, I had babysitting duties every day, from Monday to Friday, with a kid party at the zoo on the Saturday.
Allergies.
Is G-meister allergic to peanuts? The resounding answer is we still don't know. Her RAST tests came back as still allergic, but less allergic, at a category 3. She's still positive for shrimp, walnuts and pecans. Her real problem, according to the allergist, is a whopping category 6 "off the charts" response to dust mites. Really? REALLY?
N-man was slightly better-- no food allergies at all any more, but also "really allergic" to dust mites.
I spent a long time on the phone with the (very kind) allergist, discussing our options regarding further testing. G-girl wants to do an in-office food challenge yesterday and I am stalling, just because I don't think I can deal. The allergist's final word on the peanut allergy is "you need to keep an epi-pen but I don't think you'll ever use it." That's better than it's been for 7 years, and I guess I need to adjust my attitude to focus on the joy in that.
The grace is what I pray for. The grace to deal. Currently I am stuck in "omiGOD-- dust mites????" That's a whole different ball of wax. I have lived with someone who had allergic asthma, whose issues were primarily dust mites. I know what to do and that's what's causing issues. It's more work. A lot more work. I am willing to do it and I certainly will be HAPPY to get these kids some relief. I just didn't see it coming, I guess, and if the kids want to keep their stuffies they need lots of hot water washing-- often. G-girl has already made the connection between our current activities and the Velveteen Rabbit so I think she knows where my head is at: wouldn't it be easier to just toss them all?
Adults acting like children
In all forms. I know Mercury is in retrograde, and as much as I'd prefer to dismiss astrology altogether, it does hold true that people go batshit crazy during this time. For my part, I have been mostly capable of keeping my nose clean but that's hard to do when relative strangers want to perceive the world as a battleground, and myself as a willing combatant. I'm not writing a lot here, and I know it's because I closed the blog. I miss the discourse. I want to open the blog back up, but I despise the fact that people find me interesting for the wrong reasons. These are my children. My babies! They're off limits for gossip and vitriol.
Another friend got into a car wreck which totaled her car and sent her to the hospital with broken bones; instead of using that accident as an opportunity to heal or break from the situation, the same adult children used the occasion to launch a double e-mail volley with me. Knowing what was going on with our friend, knowing that I was among those caring for her and her children, it just further demonstrated my point that I am not missing out on any form of friendship with them. They don't speak my love language, I guess, and I resent having to fend them off my mental space. One of them is why I closed the blog (she knew about the peanut butter cup incident that way) and she continues to ferret information. It's distressing. I don't mind complete strangers having certain information about my life. It is how people choose to use it that makes the difference to me.
The Dogs are Dying
Also nothing surprising, given that they are 15 and 16 years old, but it's hard to watch. I may be unpublished, but I am still a Southern writer, and what happened two days ago is nothing short of Faulkneresque. I will probably write it out better later, but basically it goes like this: P-daddy was going out of town and Presleydog has really gotten weak and thin lately. He's literally wasting away pounds by the day and P-daddy was concerned the dog would pass while he was out of town. As a precaution, he dug a grave for the dog the day before he left. On Monday, I had errands to run (including a gigantic panel blood draw for me), and I let Presley out early. That evening, when I had collected the children and gotten them their supper, I realized Pres was not back on the porch. I went to all his usual sleeping bushes and houses; I drove the neighborhood looking for him. I couldn't find him. I told Deb-the-neighbor "He can't walk across the living room, but he went on a walkabout!"
When I gave up and came in, discouraged, G-girl went out with a cheerful "I know I can find him, Mom!" and she did-- in like, five minutes.
"He's in the big hole Daddy dug!" My mind went crack a little bit. When I went out, he was curled up, laying in the bottom of the hole, for sure. He was breathing, but it still struck me as an ugly sight. The thing is, he's so feeble, he really couldn't get out. He's in so much pain I really didn't want to envision him getting IN there, much less how much it would hurt him for me to drag him out.
Presley, for those who don't know, was never a small dog. He teetered between 85 and 98 pounds his whole life. He's also one of the few dogs I ever met with secretary spread. And here he was, standing now, wagging at me with a hopeful expression his face. "Get me out?"
I asked G-girl to go get a neighbor gentleman, because I was certain I would not be able to hoist the dog. Meanwhile, I went into the garage and brought out a long board to use as a ramp. While I could get Presley to move to the side enough so that I could lower the board, he looked at it and at me, with disdain. "Really?" About this time, G-girl came up with Deb-the-neighbor, who was also carrying a plank. Great minds think alike, I guess.
Awkward and embarrassed, I asked her "Do you know what's going on?"
With delivery befitting a Southern preacher's wife, Deb said slowly and kindly, "If I understand it correctly, [delicate pause], the dog has fallen into his own grave."
The absurdity of the situation, with the still-happy dog wagging away in his final intended bed, just overtook me and I groaned out loud. Deb calmed me and took the failed ramp out of the hole. She suggested-- and we did-- a double hoist where she took one end and I took the other to elevate him to higher ground. I was almost overcome with sadness-- he might have weighed 50 pounds at that point, maybe-- when Deb laughed out loud. I looked over where she pointed at Presley, who was peeing like a race horse. Apparently, he'd been in the hole a long, long time, and wasn't about to soil it.
"Well," I said wryly,"at least he knows it's his."
Upswings
We have barstools! Reeciebird's Mom was trying to get rid of hers, just in time for my caterwauling post about missing bar stools. P-daddy needs to file them down a bit and they will be perfect perfect perfect. I am really grateful about that turn of events.
Our homeschooling group is coming together really nicely. I like adults with intention, and we've all been seeking each other out in ways that really complement each other, on many different levels. We've been meeting on Fridays, rotating activities and houses and it's all been pretty effortless. I want to do this as often as we are, I just didn't want my house to be the sole proving ground. It's been good on that front lately.
I will just say the month has been rough. It's been a morass of emotional acrobatics and physical exhaustion. It's not all been bad, by any means, but it has been tough going. During one week, I had babysitting duties every day, from Monday to Friday, with a kid party at the zoo on the Saturday.
Allergies.
Is G-meister allergic to peanuts? The resounding answer is we still don't know. Her RAST tests came back as still allergic, but less allergic, at a category 3. She's still positive for shrimp, walnuts and pecans. Her real problem, according to the allergist, is a whopping category 6 "off the charts" response to dust mites. Really? REALLY?
N-man was slightly better-- no food allergies at all any more, but also "really allergic" to dust mites.
I spent a long time on the phone with the (very kind) allergist, discussing our options regarding further testing. G-girl wants to do an in-office food challenge yesterday and I am stalling, just because I don't think I can deal. The allergist's final word on the peanut allergy is "you need to keep an epi-pen but I don't think you'll ever use it." That's better than it's been for 7 years, and I guess I need to adjust my attitude to focus on the joy in that.
The grace is what I pray for. The grace to deal. Currently I am stuck in "omiGOD-- dust mites????" That's a whole different ball of wax. I have lived with someone who had allergic asthma, whose issues were primarily dust mites. I know what to do and that's what's causing issues. It's more work. A lot more work. I am willing to do it and I certainly will be HAPPY to get these kids some relief. I just didn't see it coming, I guess, and if the kids want to keep their stuffies they need lots of hot water washing-- often. G-girl has already made the connection between our current activities and the Velveteen Rabbit so I think she knows where my head is at: wouldn't it be easier to just toss them all?
Adults acting like children
In all forms. I know Mercury is in retrograde, and as much as I'd prefer to dismiss astrology altogether, it does hold true that people go batshit crazy during this time. For my part, I have been mostly capable of keeping my nose clean but that's hard to do when relative strangers want to perceive the world as a battleground, and myself as a willing combatant. I'm not writing a lot here, and I know it's because I closed the blog. I miss the discourse. I want to open the blog back up, but I despise the fact that people find me interesting for the wrong reasons. These are my children. My babies! They're off limits for gossip and vitriol.
Another friend got into a car wreck which totaled her car and sent her to the hospital with broken bones; instead of using that accident as an opportunity to heal or break from the situation, the same adult children used the occasion to launch a double e-mail volley with me. Knowing what was going on with our friend, knowing that I was among those caring for her and her children, it just further demonstrated my point that I am not missing out on any form of friendship with them. They don't speak my love language, I guess, and I resent having to fend them off my mental space. One of them is why I closed the blog (she knew about the peanut butter cup incident that way) and she continues to ferret information. It's distressing. I don't mind complete strangers having certain information about my life. It is how people choose to use it that makes the difference to me.
The Dogs are Dying
Also nothing surprising, given that they are 15 and 16 years old, but it's hard to watch. I may be unpublished, but I am still a Southern writer, and what happened two days ago is nothing short of Faulkneresque. I will probably write it out better later, but basically it goes like this: P-daddy was going out of town and Presleydog has really gotten weak and thin lately. He's literally wasting away pounds by the day and P-daddy was concerned the dog would pass while he was out of town. As a precaution, he dug a grave for the dog the day before he left. On Monday, I had errands to run (including a gigantic panel blood draw for me), and I let Presley out early. That evening, when I had collected the children and gotten them their supper, I realized Pres was not back on the porch. I went to all his usual sleeping bushes and houses; I drove the neighborhood looking for him. I couldn't find him. I told Deb-the-neighbor "He can't walk across the living room, but he went on a walkabout!"
When I gave up and came in, discouraged, G-girl went out with a cheerful "I know I can find him, Mom!" and she did-- in like, five minutes.
"He's in the big hole Daddy dug!" My mind went crack a little bit. When I went out, he was curled up, laying in the bottom of the hole, for sure. He was breathing, but it still struck me as an ugly sight. The thing is, he's so feeble, he really couldn't get out. He's in so much pain I really didn't want to envision him getting IN there, much less how much it would hurt him for me to drag him out.
Presley, for those who don't know, was never a small dog. He teetered between 85 and 98 pounds his whole life. He's also one of the few dogs I ever met with secretary spread. And here he was, standing now, wagging at me with a hopeful expression his face. "Get me out?"
I asked G-girl to go get a neighbor gentleman, because I was certain I would not be able to hoist the dog. Meanwhile, I went into the garage and brought out a long board to use as a ramp. While I could get Presley to move to the side enough so that I could lower the board, he looked at it and at me, with disdain. "Really?" About this time, G-girl came up with Deb-the-neighbor, who was also carrying a plank. Great minds think alike, I guess.
Awkward and embarrassed, I asked her "Do you know what's going on?"
With delivery befitting a Southern preacher's wife, Deb said slowly and kindly, "If I understand it correctly, [delicate pause], the dog has fallen into his own grave."
The absurdity of the situation, with the still-happy dog wagging away in his final intended bed, just overtook me and I groaned out loud. Deb calmed me and took the failed ramp out of the hole. She suggested-- and we did-- a double hoist where she took one end and I took the other to elevate him to higher ground. I was almost overcome with sadness-- he might have weighed 50 pounds at that point, maybe-- when Deb laughed out loud. I looked over where she pointed at Presley, who was peeing like a race horse. Apparently, he'd been in the hole a long, long time, and wasn't about to soil it.
"Well," I said wryly,"at least he knows it's his."
Upswings
We have barstools! Reeciebird's Mom was trying to get rid of hers, just in time for my caterwauling post about missing bar stools. P-daddy needs to file them down a bit and they will be perfect perfect perfect. I am really grateful about that turn of events.
Our homeschooling group is coming together really nicely. I like adults with intention, and we've all been seeking each other out in ways that really complement each other, on many different levels. We've been meeting on Fridays, rotating activities and houses and it's all been pretty effortless. I want to do this as often as we are, I just didn't want my house to be the sole proving ground. It's been good on that front lately.
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
We tried to wear them out
Day whatever-it-is of being snowbound with kids and a vacationing hubby.
Determined to escape cabin fever-- which I admit to starting to feel-- I started the day with a giant batch of pancakes for everyone. We had sausage, eggs and orange juice to go with it.
We all went ice-hill sledding again, this time with some inflatable sleds I'd purchased two years ago when I thought we were going up to Hurricane Ridge. Oddly enough, the baby-pull-along sled still fits D-meister and SCREAMS downhill faster than any of the others. The child is fearless, which is a good thing considering our near miss today. With three extra sleds, P-daddy and I were sledding too. We can't aim worth a damn, let's just say, and the three year old is clueless about "off the lane!" I was in one of the inflatables and D-meister was worse than a deer in the headlights-- he was completely nonplussed at my big behind barreling down the hill towards him. As he wouldn't get out of the way and I had no control whatever of the inflatable kiddie sled on a downhill ice slick, I scooped him into my lap as I bore down on him. That motion spun us round and round, faster and faster downhill. It was FUN, even when we crashed into the cliff wall, and the D-man never relinquished his hold on his own sled.
One of us needed to go to the bathroom, so we left. The kids sojourned outside, with P-daddy whipslinging them down our own icy road while I made the royal icing. We did our gingerbread house. Sometime after that we painted glass ornaments, another craft project I've had squirreled away for a couple of years. There was more kiddie craft stuff-- even this evening, when everything is supposed to be fresh on my mind, everything is beginning to blur. Today I chose not to take pictures, mindfully deciding to not have the camera as a distraction.
The big thing for me today though, aside from the sled scoopage, was my canning project at dinner time. Every year my Grandaddy made a mustard-based barbecue sauce and gave it away at Christmas. I suppose to the uninitiated, that sounds like a really weird Christmas gift, but I have first hand knowledge of the ferocity of our friend and family's desire for the stuff. As awful as it was when he passed, Christmas really seemed odd without his sauce on everything from the collard greens to the pulled pork. The last time he made it, my then-fiance was there to help him out. When I inherited the kitchen aid mixer I used to blend it, I had to clean the sauce splatter off of it. For beekeepers, the honey gets everywhere. For us, I guess it's the BBQ sauce.
My Grandmother gave me the recipe some time ago but I haven't had the heart to make it. Grandaddy had scribbled it down on a little spiral memo pad in his distinct script with no instructions. As far as I know, he never canned it. He funneled it into leftover ketchup or mustard squeeze containers and stripped the labels off. Heavy on the vinegar, I suppose the sauce didn't really require canning(we still had some of it when we moved to Washington) but I wanted to make sure. I made ten pints of it this evening while I roasted some chicken. (Only D-meister tried it but then he lapped it up like a little guinea pig.) I'd like to send these jars home to Charleston and brighten some kitchens, and maybe remind them of some Christmases past.
From yesterday-- the igloo is finished:
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
My Grandaddy's Kitchen
I have been thinking about him so much lately. So, so much.
Here's his kitchen:
Monday, May 05, 2008
Annual Tests
In the state of Washington, homeschoolers are required to test annually. That sounds fine to me, actually, but for even the most strident, privacy-loving homeschoolers, the WA state law is pretty relaxed about it. You do not have to test until your child is 8 and entering third grade, the test can be a test of your choosing as long as it is proctored by someone approved by the state, and the results are sent to you the parent, alone. You do not have to provide scores to the state, just the evidence that you did take the test.
At this point, though, neither of my school-aged children fall into that category. As young as they are, they don't have to sit for testing yet. However, we submitted to it anyway this year-- for both of them-- because we are participating in a virtual academy. Up until this point I have been perfectly happy to sit that fence. I have no qualms at all identifying myself as a homeschooler, because what we do and how we do it has not been altered one iota since accepting this new arrangement. However, I do enjoy the increased funding--that has been a boon to say the least. In fact, the funding has allowed me to experiment with different things that I would not have even tried before having the disposable cash to purchase materials new. As a result the children have benefited and there is no denying that in my house.
But we sat for these tests this morning and I regret it. I regret it to my core. Because they are the straight-up, ridiculous, teaching-for-the-test kind of bullshit that happens when you get too many education experts in a room and they have to justify their higher degrees. The tests were a test of the education system, not of the students. Even the teachers can't score them, they have to wait for the results to go through an algorithm on an off-site computer before they can even tell you what is going on. And for the first time in my children's lives, they felt like they failed something. It was ridiculous.
Why? Because apparently the MAP test is scored based on how the student information looks after she has missed 50 percent of the questions. What that means to a kid who is getting the stuff right is that your "20 minute" test takes a hell of a lot longer. And the kid KNOWS she's screwing it up. How is that possibly conducive to a pleasant and affirming educational experience?
I hesitated posting this here in my blog because even I am thinking "you should have known better than to trust them, this is what public schools do." From Montessori to Unschooling, tests and placing any stock in them is well outside my worldview, and my children's. Yet, it is part of our journey and I want it out there so maybe someone else can benefit from the experience. What follows is my dialog with our contact teacher at the virtual academy.
Dear Teacherperson,
When we began the school year, I had no intention of having my children test. We were going to drop down to homeschool enrollment and handle it that way. As we progressed, and as per CVA guidelines I began to pay attention to the children's progress, I found myself looking forward to the testing process. "Bring it ON!" I thought. The kids have grown and changed so much this year; their confidence and skills have really come to light. I was and remain proud of them and the work we have done here.
She replied very quickly, which I appreciated, and cc'd the principals of the academy:
Hi ~L~,
I really appreciate you talking with me first before going to the Beta site. My heart goes out to your kids and to you. Remember, this is just a snapshot and one style of assessment that does not work for all students. Next year we can look at some different types of assessment so this experience is not repeated for G and N.
The unique aspect of the MAP is kids get 50% of the questions correct and 50% incorrect which can be hard for little ones to deal with. This is supposed to help the test align with the kids skills so that we get an accurate reading of where they are. I should have your test results by next Monday. Regardless of what the results show, we both know how much your children have progressed and grown this year. I'm so happy you are proud of your kids, I am too! Please give G and N a great BIG hug from me and tell the how proud I am of them for getting through the MAP and that they are such smart cookies!!
What does your Wednesday look like? I have meetings from 2:30 until the end of the day tomorrow but at this point Wednesday is wide open.
Sorry to keep this short but please know that I am on your side and will do everything I can to help you and the kids.
-----------
So that's where I am. As usual, I have no problem with our contact teacher, as she truly has worked with us to translate our eclectic style into public school acceptability. I have taken many tests over the years as a student, and I was one of the children who test very well. I relished finding the "tricks" in the questions, and rarely wore of it. Today, however, I saw a test unlike anything I'd ever seen. It was sucky for my daughter, who gave it the college try and was rewarded with an hour and a half test for her troubles, and it was sucky for my son, who may as well not have taken the thing. He's the one I feel so bad for. He's the one I feel I have failed. He's so, so little, and to hear him say "I just can't do math," about killed me when that is really something he's so enjoyed. They just didn't bother testing him on it, and said they did.
-----------
A number of other parents are objecting to the MAP: http://homeschooldistractions.blogspot.com/2008/04/thumbs-down-map-assessment.html
http://lifeatnikis.blogspot.com/2008/05/test-those-homeschoolers.html
ETA:
May 2008
The children's advisory teacher called us while we were on vacation in Charleston. Both children scored as "very high" on the tests, both in the 90s, with Nick scoring in the 99th percentiles on both math and language. I am unmoved to feel any differently about the test.
At this point, though, neither of my school-aged children fall into that category. As young as they are, they don't have to sit for testing yet. However, we submitted to it anyway this year-- for both of them-- because we are participating in a virtual academy. Up until this point I have been perfectly happy to sit that fence. I have no qualms at all identifying myself as a homeschooler, because what we do and how we do it has not been altered one iota since accepting this new arrangement. However, I do enjoy the increased funding--that has been a boon to say the least. In fact, the funding has allowed me to experiment with different things that I would not have even tried before having the disposable cash to purchase materials new. As a result the children have benefited and there is no denying that in my house.
But we sat for these tests this morning and I regret it. I regret it to my core. Because they are the straight-up, ridiculous, teaching-for-the-test kind of bullshit that happens when you get too many education experts in a room and they have to justify their higher degrees. The tests were a test of the education system, not of the students. Even the teachers can't score them, they have to wait for the results to go through an algorithm on an off-site computer before they can even tell you what is going on. And for the first time in my children's lives, they felt like they failed something. It was ridiculous.
Why? Because apparently the MAP test is scored based on how the student information looks after she has missed 50 percent of the questions. What that means to a kid who is getting the stuff right is that your "20 minute" test takes a hell of a lot longer. And the kid KNOWS she's screwing it up. How is that possibly conducive to a pleasant and affirming educational experience?
I hesitated posting this here in my blog because even I am thinking "you should have known better than to trust them, this is what public schools do." From Montessori to Unschooling, tests and placing any stock in them is well outside my worldview, and my children's. Yet, it is part of our journey and I want it out there so maybe someone else can benefit from the experience. What follows is my dialog with our contact teacher at the virtual academy.
Dear Teacherperson,
When we began the school year, I had no intention of having my children test. We were going to drop down to homeschool enrollment and handle it that way. As we progressed, and as per CVA guidelines I began to pay attention to the children's progress, I found myself looking forward to the testing process. "Bring it ON!" I thought. The kids have grown and changed so much this year; their confidence and skills have really come to light. I was and remain proud of them and the work we have done here.
My children sat for the MAP this morning and I have to say, we're all a bit deflated. The tests for K and 2 focused on some odd things, I thought. I've been teaching my daughter to read, not to count syllables. I am not kidding, her personal test seemed to focus intensively on counting syllables. I know what books she is reading, because I listen to her while she does it, or we talk about their content when she's done reading alone. The girl can read and write, but this test won't display that.
My kindy son's went from simple kindy math to "here's a math 'sentence,' now which would be the wrong way to solve it?" That alone irritated me, but then the samples for him to choose from had little or nothing to do with math. It was testing him not on calculation or even on reasoning, but on methods other teachers / school use to teach children math. He felt bowled over and distressed. He felt like he couldn't do math, and I know that is so not the case. I felt gut-punched and a little betrayed. My child has never cried over "school" work, ever. And he cried today because I felt I had to make him sit and finish this thing out. By the end, my 5 year old was just throwing it; He went from sobbing because he so wanted to "get it right" to just clicking on random pictures to just have it be over.
Not one question on either test asked about culture, history, music, art or science. There was nothing of any substance. No reading comprehension (past a few advertisements), spelling or sequencing at all.
I have been mollified by CVA for months that this is just a "marker" and a "place to begin tracking progress." I bought it and even sold it to my kids, that it would be fun and to not worry about it, that this would be just a little longer version of the things they already do. But what exactly are they supposed to be progressing in? This didn't actually test their math or language skills, and it surely didn't allow for any demonstration of knowledge or skill beyond that.
If we don't have an alternate method of demonstrating the children's knowledge next year, (and don't even mention WASL), then I don't know that we will be staying on board with CVA.
She replied very quickly, which I appreciated, and cc'd the principals of the academy:
Hi ~L~,
I really appreciate you talking with me first before going to the Beta site. My heart goes out to your kids and to you. Remember, this is just a snapshot and one style of assessment that does not work for all students. Next year we can look at some different types of assessment so this experience is not repeated for G and N.
The unique aspect of the MAP is kids get 50% of the questions correct and 50% incorrect which can be hard for little ones to deal with. This is supposed to help the test align with the kids skills so that we get an accurate reading of where they are. I should have your test results by next Monday. Regardless of what the results show, we both know how much your children have progressed and grown this year. I'm so happy you are proud of your kids, I am too! Please give G and N a great BIG hug from me and tell the how proud I am of them for getting through the MAP and that they are such smart cookies!!
What does your Wednesday look like? I have meetings from 2:30 until the end of the day tomorrow but at this point Wednesday is wide open.
Sorry to keep this short but please know that I am on your side and will do everything I can to help you and the kids.
-----------
So that's where I am. As usual, I have no problem with our contact teacher, as she truly has worked with us to translate our eclectic style into public school acceptability. I have taken many tests over the years as a student, and I was one of the children who test very well. I relished finding the "tricks" in the questions, and rarely wore of it. Today, however, I saw a test unlike anything I'd ever seen. It was sucky for my daughter, who gave it the college try and was rewarded with an hour and a half test for her troubles, and it was sucky for my son, who may as well not have taken the thing. He's the one I feel so bad for. He's the one I feel I have failed. He's so, so little, and to hear him say "I just can't do math," about killed me when that is really something he's so enjoyed. They just didn't bother testing him on it, and said they did.
-----------
A number of other parents are objecting to the MAP: http://homeschooldistractions.blogspot.com/2008/04/thumbs-down-map-assessment.html
http://lifeatnikis.blogspot.com/2008/05/test-those-homeschoolers.html
ETA:
May 2008
The children's advisory teacher called us while we were on vacation in Charleston. Both children scored as "very high" on the tests, both in the 90s, with Nick scoring in the 99th percentiles on both math and language. I am unmoved to feel any differently about the test.
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
Death and Children
There's a quote I don't particularly like, but it does concisely relate how I feel about the vulnerability of children: "To become a mother is to forever have your heart walking around outside your body."
I know several people online who have lost their children to death. Somehow, they got up the next morning, continued to feed themselves, continued to breathe. Some had other children before the death; some went on to conceive the siblings after the fact. In any case I am always humbled by the strength of their humanity, supremely grateful for them that they still have children to love in the here and now.
Every new parent who actually bonds with their child knows a fear of loss. Entrusted with this new life, this entirely helpless, squirming bundle for whom you've been overwhelmed with love, most of us have elaborate fantasies about how we will protect them from all comers. Modern consumer society is happy to oblige this instinct, selling parents everything from car seats to outlet covers to crawling-baby kneepads. Some are useful and reasonable, most are just an elixir one can purchase to buy off that feeling of NEED. If we buy enough protective gear, then maybe that pit of fear will go away. We can protect them! We can keep them safe and with us!
Most parents get over this in time. Every woman has a benchmark: "she's past the age of SIDS now," or "he's three, he can eat popcorn safely now." They grow beyond the need to take the baby to the bathroom with them, and the parent-child bond reaches a more manageable level. I make great fun of "first time Moms" because I was a classic example of the hyper protective, freaked out Mommy. I would use a stroller in the mall for my first daughter, when I wore a sling everywhere else, because I could put her carseat in it and make this hermetically sealed baby bubble by drawing closed both sun shades, shielding her from strangers' eyes and germs. By the time we had our third child, he never even got to use the travel system; who had time to navigate all that equipment?
The truth is, however, there is a big part of my heart still trapped in first-Mommy mode. We all know how horrible it must be to lose a child. We all know that our days are not promised to us. We all say we can not even imagine the heartache.... but frankly, I think I can. My daughter was 13 months old when she had her first anaphylactic reaction to peanuts. She was 18 months old when her allergist told me her IgE count was unusually elevated, even for his office. "This is one very allergic little girl," he said to us. But I was already well on my way to trusting the child, trusting life to take care of itself. He knew I wasn't understanding him. When someone looks you in the eye and tells you deliberately, "Listen to me. She will die if you don't keep these substances away from her," life pauses. Time stops. He got our attention. He changed my life.
Since then, her general health has improved to the point where she's probably healthier than most of her peers. While she still reacts to things, she hasn't had an anaphylactic reaction since she was three. It's easy to become complacent when her allergies only manifest anymore as the stuffy nose that so many of us walk around sporting. To look at her, to see her life and how easily she navigates our world, most people have no clue. She looks like a flourishing little girl with a nose-picking habit. I am both grateful and proud (for the flourishing part, anyway.) But sometime, at some point during nearly every day of my life, I feel that chill. This is something I do pray for: please let my children outlive me. please.
In my home community, the general attitude regarding food allergies isn't very accomodating. "Just don't eat it!" or "YOU need to keep her HOME if she's that sensitive," were the prevailing sentiments. They either didn't get it, or more likely, they truly didn't care. For us, with our awareness of a new layer of cruelty in the world, it wasn't until she was six that we started to relax out of that first-parent fear a bit: "She's old enough to say she's allergic. She's old enough to ask about it, to say no." Even now, I know she's not old enough to discern whether people are wrong, though, and it dismays me every time I have to correct an adult who has told my child to eat something that would harm her. Every time, I think about what would have happened had I not been there. Every time, I get nauseous and realize that my experience as a mother, our experience as parents, is different from most others'. They can't understand and they never will.
Nathan was seven this year when he died. Quinn would have turned seven this October. Their mothers know what it is to lose that greatest privilege and joy. Yet they're still breathing. They're still mothering. I wonder whether they resent their courage and the admiration they receive; because to them, those qualities are not a result of anything they have chosen for their families. They are coping with something they hate. I care for these women, I grieve with them. But just the fact they exist proves these things happen. The idea that our children were born the same time just pierces me. Death does come for children, and the obnoxious reality is that for some of us the odds are higher than others. All I can do is outwardly ignore the possibility and take comfort that we're doing the best we can. So is G.
My focus has shifted from protecto-mode to life mode. The allergy doesn't manage us anymore, we manage it. It's taken me years to get here, and I remind myself to take each moment into my heart. It's her life, and I gave it to her to live it.
I know several people online who have lost their children to death. Somehow, they got up the next morning, continued to feed themselves, continued to breathe. Some had other children before the death; some went on to conceive the siblings after the fact. In any case I am always humbled by the strength of their humanity, supremely grateful for them that they still have children to love in the here and now.
Every new parent who actually bonds with their child knows a fear of loss. Entrusted with this new life, this entirely helpless, squirming bundle for whom you've been overwhelmed with love, most of us have elaborate fantasies about how we will protect them from all comers. Modern consumer society is happy to oblige this instinct, selling parents everything from car seats to outlet covers to crawling-baby kneepads. Some are useful and reasonable, most are just an elixir one can purchase to buy off that feeling of NEED. If we buy enough protective gear, then maybe that pit of fear will go away. We can protect them! We can keep them safe and with us!
Most parents get over this in time. Every woman has a benchmark: "she's past the age of SIDS now," or "he's three, he can eat popcorn safely now." They grow beyond the need to take the baby to the bathroom with them, and the parent-child bond reaches a more manageable level. I make great fun of "first time Moms" because I was a classic example of the hyper protective, freaked out Mommy. I would use a stroller in the mall for my first daughter, when I wore a sling everywhere else, because I could put her carseat in it and make this hermetically sealed baby bubble by drawing closed both sun shades, shielding her from strangers' eyes and germs. By the time we had our third child, he never even got to use the travel system; who had time to navigate all that equipment?
The truth is, however, there is a big part of my heart still trapped in first-Mommy mode. We all know how horrible it must be to lose a child. We all know that our days are not promised to us. We all say we can not even imagine the heartache.... but frankly, I think I can. My daughter was 13 months old when she had her first anaphylactic reaction to peanuts. She was 18 months old when her allergist told me her IgE count was unusually elevated, even for his office. "This is one very allergic little girl," he said to us. But I was already well on my way to trusting the child, trusting life to take care of itself. He knew I wasn't understanding him. When someone looks you in the eye and tells you deliberately, "Listen to me. She will die if you don't keep these substances away from her," life pauses. Time stops. He got our attention. He changed my life.
Since then, her general health has improved to the point where she's probably healthier than most of her peers. While she still reacts to things, she hasn't had an anaphylactic reaction since she was three. It's easy to become complacent when her allergies only manifest anymore as the stuffy nose that so many of us walk around sporting. To look at her, to see her life and how easily she navigates our world, most people have no clue. She looks like a flourishing little girl with a nose-picking habit. I am both grateful and proud (for the flourishing part, anyway.) But sometime, at some point during nearly every day of my life, I feel that chill. This is something I do pray for: please let my children outlive me. please.
In my home community, the general attitude regarding food allergies isn't very accomodating. "Just don't eat it!" or "YOU need to keep her HOME if she's that sensitive," were the prevailing sentiments. They either didn't get it, or more likely, they truly didn't care. For us, with our awareness of a new layer of cruelty in the world, it wasn't until she was six that we started to relax out of that first-parent fear a bit: "She's old enough to say she's allergic. She's old enough to ask about it, to say no." Even now, I know she's not old enough to discern whether people are wrong, though, and it dismays me every time I have to correct an adult who has told my child to eat something that would harm her. Every time, I think about what would have happened had I not been there. Every time, I get nauseous and realize that my experience as a mother, our experience as parents, is different from most others'. They can't understand and they never will.
Nathan was seven this year when he died. Quinn would have turned seven this October. Their mothers know what it is to lose that greatest privilege and joy. Yet they're still breathing. They're still mothering. I wonder whether they resent their courage and the admiration they receive; because to them, those qualities are not a result of anything they have chosen for their families. They are coping with something they hate. I care for these women, I grieve with them. But just the fact they exist proves these things happen. The idea that our children were born the same time just pierces me. Death does come for children, and the obnoxious reality is that for some of us the odds are higher than others. All I can do is outwardly ignore the possibility and take comfort that we're doing the best we can. So is G.
My focus has shifted from protecto-mode to life mode. The allergy doesn't manage us anymore, we manage it. It's taken me years to get here, and I remind myself to take each moment into my heart. It's her life, and I gave it to her to live it.
Sunday, August 19, 2007
How can it be over there?
How can it be "over there" when it's in our own living rooms?
I was reading the paper today when I was jarred out of my complacency by this juxtaposition:
(click for clearer image)
Sunday, July 29, 2007
Nathan has passed
Little Nathan has passed.
Please join us in praying for his parents and his siblings. There is a family tonight beginning a new leg of a journey they never invited or imagined.
Please join us in praying for his parents and his siblings. There is a family tonight beginning a new leg of a journey they never invited or imagined.
Sunday, July 08, 2007
Little Nathan
We are praying for this boy: my dh and I, my fellow Tenters, and the many people whose lives Nathan has touched personally. Unlike many of our Junebugs, who we've visited or have visited us, Nathan probably has no idea who I am. He's been sick most of his life with neuroblastoma. The doctors caught it late as far as the disease goes, when he was a toddler, and the resulting prognosis was 7 years. I remember vividly digging through the internet like a madwoman, trying to find anything to the contrary. I remember passionate conversations with Angie, Leti, Dawn and Kim about how certainly by the time 6 years was up, the researchers would have found something. He'd make it! Surely that was such a long time that the medicine would catch up!
As parents, we now know how fast that time goes past.
Most of us under the tent have children born within days and weeks of Nathan. He turned 7 years old in June. Every birthday he had, we'd celebrate silently as if it was our own child given that extra year. In a way, I suppose, it was. Every lost tooth of Nathan's held a different meaning than our children's. He didn't find it exciting when chemo ruined his smile. Every picture, with new hearing aids, or fresh surgical tape pointed out to us how different his life path would become. It somehow started to seem unfair that we had healthy children. We celebrated life itself when Nathan achieved NED status, and cried in devastation when his disease returned after almost 2 years. Most of us refused to turn away, despite the pain. We kept following their lives, their story, feeling as if we could provide some invisible army, some huge community that would make Nathan's life even bigger than it ever would be on its own.
None of us who know Susan take our children's lives for granted. I have never written about him before because I have always felt it was not my place, not my story. But now, his family has been given the news that "Nathan has days to weeks left, rather than weeks." They have called in hospice and the boy takes more morphine than an adult could normally handle. So I am posting because I believe in the power of positive intention, prayer, pulsing, whatever you personally call the communication your soul has with other energies. I don't ask for him to be saved, because it is too late for that. But I am praying for his parents and their ravaged hearts. I am praying for his two little sisters, who will know a loss they can't understand. I am praying for little Nathan, who is soon to leave the only life he has ever known. Nathan, who lies about needing pain meds so he can be awake longer with his family. Nathan, who said just yesterday that he'd rather do yard work his mom than sleep on the couch-- and did it.
I am praying for Grace, for everyone involved. I hope you will send some of your energy as well.
As parents, we now know how fast that time goes past.
Most of us under the tent have children born within days and weeks of Nathan. He turned 7 years old in June. Every birthday he had, we'd celebrate silently as if it was our own child given that extra year. In a way, I suppose, it was. Every lost tooth of Nathan's held a different meaning than our children's. He didn't find it exciting when chemo ruined his smile. Every picture, with new hearing aids, or fresh surgical tape pointed out to us how different his life path would become. It somehow started to seem unfair that we had healthy children. We celebrated life itself when Nathan achieved NED status, and cried in devastation when his disease returned after almost 2 years. Most of us refused to turn away, despite the pain. We kept following their lives, their story, feeling as if we could provide some invisible army, some huge community that would make Nathan's life even bigger than it ever would be on its own.
None of us who know Susan take our children's lives for granted. I have never written about him before because I have always felt it was not my place, not my story. But now, his family has been given the news that "Nathan has days to weeks left, rather than weeks." They have called in hospice and the boy takes more morphine than an adult could normally handle. So I am posting because I believe in the power of positive intention, prayer, pulsing, whatever you personally call the communication your soul has with other energies. I don't ask for him to be saved, because it is too late for that. But I am praying for his parents and their ravaged hearts. I am praying for his two little sisters, who will know a loss they can't understand. I am praying for little Nathan, who is soon to leave the only life he has ever known. Nathan, who lies about needing pain meds so he can be awake longer with his family. Nathan, who said just yesterday that he'd rather do yard work his mom than sleep on the couch-- and did it.
I am praying for Grace, for everyone involved. I hope you will send some of your energy as well.
Sunday, June 17, 2007
We need to pass the stupid immigration bill already
One way or another. This inanity has to end.
http://www.king5.com/video/news-index.html?nvid=152238&shu=1
My friend writes:
http://www.king5.com/video/news-index.html?nvid=152238&shu=1
My friend writes:
My son speaks (on the radio)
Listen to it please.
Ok, so the day that I interviewed with the news channel, we also interviewed with an alternative radio station in Portland Oregon. They gave my children the opportunity to speak.
The spot is about 4 minutes, myself and my son are in the second two minutes.
My son is about 2 weeks short of 7 years old here.
If you support undocumented immigrants being deported without question. If you can still support such violation of families after hearing ~D~, I worry for your sense of justice.
http://www.kboo.fm/node/3319
Monday, April 09, 2007
Uncle Bill
I am stinging from this loss. I am not one of those people who moved across country and had my relationships persist as if I had never left. So, I haven't talked to Uncle Bill in two years, since we moved out of the neighborhood adjacent to him. Bill and Deanie were cornerstones of my childhood. Very simple, salt-of-the-earth people, they were family icons. They didn't do much outside love their family and their church but they were just really, really good at it.
Bill, at 19, married Deanie when she was 13. They stayed together for the rest of his life and had three strong sons who all smile the same--just like their Daddy. Bill was the family fix-it guy who would come to work on your toilet or car, whether you asked him to or not.
They didn't really understand me when I grew up, or why I couldn't stay around my toxic mother (whose behaviour they blame on her divorce and my slacker sister) but they never treated me poorly. I feel bad for Deanie. Beyond bad. I can't imagine losing a partner of 56 years. I just can't.
William William Reese Harvill, 75 of Charleston, SC, entered into eternal rest April 1, 2007.
Bill was the son of the late John and Elsie Harvill. Mr. Harvill proudly served 26 years in the United States Air Force, retiring at the rank of Master Sergeant. He was a devoted member of the First Church of the Nazarene on Yeamans Hall Road in Hanahan, SC. He is survived by his beloved wife of 56 years, Elizabeth "Deanie" Donnally Harvill, three sons, David and his wife Kathy of North Charleston, Ronald and his wife Christine of East Hartford, Conn., Daren and his wife Anna of Warner Robins, GA; seven grandchildren and six great-grandchildren, one brother Phillip "P.O." Harvill of Biloxi, MS. A funeral service will be held on Thursday, April 5, 2007, 1:00 PM at CAROLINA MEMORIAL FUNERAL HOME CHAPEL. Burial to follow in Carolina Memorial Park. The family will receive friends from 6:00 to 8:00 PM Wednesday, April 4, 2007, at CAROLINA MEMORIAL FUNERAL HOME, 7113 Rivers Avenue, North Charleston, SC. In lieu of flowers, donations may be made to the First Church of the Nazarene Memorial Roll in honor of his name. Visit our guestbook at www.charleston.net/deaths.
Bill, at 19, married Deanie when she was 13. They stayed together for the rest of his life and had three strong sons who all smile the same--just like their Daddy. Bill was the family fix-it guy who would come to work on your toilet or car, whether you asked him to or not.
They didn't really understand me when I grew up, or why I couldn't stay around my toxic mother (whose behaviour they blame on her divorce and my slacker sister) but they never treated me poorly. I feel bad for Deanie. Beyond bad. I can't imagine losing a partner of 56 years. I just can't.
William William Reese Harvill, 75 of Charleston, SC, entered into eternal rest April 1, 2007.
Bill was the son of the late John and Elsie Harvill. Mr. Harvill proudly served 26 years in the United States Air Force, retiring at the rank of Master Sergeant. He was a devoted member of the First Church of the Nazarene on Yeamans Hall Road in Hanahan, SC. He is survived by his beloved wife of 56 years, Elizabeth "Deanie" Donnally Harvill, three sons, David and his wife Kathy of North Charleston, Ronald and his wife Christine of East Hartford, Conn., Daren and his wife Anna of Warner Robins, GA; seven grandchildren and six great-grandchildren, one brother Phillip "P.O." Harvill of Biloxi, MS. A funeral service will be held on Thursday, April 5, 2007, 1:00 PM at CAROLINA MEMORIAL FUNERAL HOME CHAPEL. Burial to follow in Carolina Memorial Park. The family will receive friends from 6:00 to 8:00 PM Wednesday, April 4, 2007, at CAROLINA MEMORIAL FUNERAL HOME, 7113 Rivers Avenue, North Charleston, SC. In lieu of flowers, donations may be made to the First Church of the Nazarene Memorial Roll in honor of his name. Visit our guestbook at www.charleston.net/deaths.
Friday, September 22, 2006
Breakfast with Grandmomma
I had breakfast with my Grandmomma today. I was cleaning the kitchen from a particularly slack evening last night, then I made pancakes and orange juice for the kids. We talked the whole time I was doing that, me using the headphones attachment on the phone.
We didn't really discuss anything of great importance, but I was enjoying hearing her voice as I went about my motherly duties. There is a connection I have with my Grandmother that I have with no one else. My mother was not nurturing, and her mother, once a super Granny as well, was broken into bitterness by life's long, cruel circumstances. My Grandmomma, however, was only able to bring forth one child. She miscarried another, then never conceived again. She adopted a second son, and the two boys of the same age completed her family. They both married early and quickly produced their first children just three months apart, my cousin and I, both girls. Three more grandchildren later, my Grandmomma found herself surrounded at last with the bounty of children she'd always wanted, and she reveled in it.
My grandmother was the blessing-and-curse MIL we all both fear and wish for. Unbelievably attached to her sons, she truly demanded to be informed when they so much as went out to dinner, lest she call and not get an answer at their home. She cried like a baby and held a family intervention when both sons chose not to continue attending her church, and worse, any church at all. Her intrusive entitlements extended to the grandchildren. If she didn't like the answer she got from a DIL about a health concern, Grandmomma would take the child to her own choice of pedatrician for a second opinion. She'd nag the parents incessantly because their smoking stank up the children's hair and clothing. She'd give the children soap and shampoo along with their other birthday gifts, if she believed the children were looking particularly disheveled that year.
But as with few others on the planet, I can see her motivations were always well-intentioned and pure: she cared for the child first, come what may. She may have been misguided at times, she may have been wrong at times, but even her daughters-in-law never questioned her heart. As one of those children, I was protected, loved and nurtured with a ferocious intensity.
She was also the MIL who would babysit on a moment's notice, even overnight. She never turned anyone away from her table, certainly not her grandchildren, no matter how young the infant. She'd buy clothes and groceries when it just wasn't going to happen otherwise. She took the grandchildren to church, to restaurants, to plays and on vacations. She'd spend weeks-- literally weeks-- with the kids at her house, folding us into her life and rhythms.
All I can compare it to is old-world family life, Southern American style. I grew up in a truly multi-generational family of origin, knowing my great-grandmother well (she died when I was a young adult), being known by her mother (who died when I was a toddler), and having personal relationships with each of my Grandmomma's siblings. We ate together every week, we planned picnics so large they were suited only to parks, we vacationed together, celebrated together, grieved together. My children will not grow up knowing that kind of family community, and it is a loss I fear: the loss of the awareness of belonging to a great web of people, of the safety inherent in such a belonging.
As one of the grandchildren absorbed into their life like that, I remember my grandparents' kitchen. Grandaddy was the cook, but Grandmomma was the manager. We'd have tea every morning, and the aroma from the steaming cups mingled with the smells coming from grits, oatmeal or pancakes, forming the base of an indelible scent-memory that lasts to this day. Unlike the cold cereal or instant grits my mother served me, I could count on my grandparents providing a hot breakfast, punctuated with milk or orange juice, eggs and sausage, bacon or ham, over which we'd linger for more than an hour sometimes, just chatting and enjoying each other. I was loved, and the fact that it took two hours to complete breakfast proved it to me. As much as I don't eat it regularly, breakfast remains my favorite meal.
The 70s happened. The children borne to my Grandmomma's generation became liberated from the ideas and belief systems cherished by their parents.Cousins drifted apart. Love remained, but the sense of remaining physically close with one's family went by the wayside, quite literally. Children had grown up, bearing children of their own. Within that decade, my parents' entire marriage began and ended, climaxing in bitterness and a first for the entire family: children chose divorce. Children chose to come out. Children chose to move away. Children married outside their faith, their nationality, their race. The family began to fragment. Still vital and active in their 50s and 60s, my Grandmomma and her sibs kept their Sunday dinners together, and the holiday traditions they began remained strong while my generation enjoyed it's childhood.
The 80s happened. Unthinkably, three of our nuclear families moved to Virginia. Holiday traditions in Charleston remained, but they were more difficult now that travel was involved. Birthdays became a card and a call. My own mother kept me and my baby sister away from my Grandparents because she didn't like their opinions about her life, or their perceived influence on me, and I didn't have birthdays or holidays with them for 7 years. Alone in a neglectful, dysfunctional household, my memories of safety and belonging to something else drove me to freedom. On my 18th birthday, I bicycled the scant three miles in the punishing June heat from one grandmother's house to the other's, and reclaimed my place in the web. My sister denies ever having a place there. Another fracture, another strand undone.
The 90s happened. All the grandchildren are now grown; going to college, making choices of our own. Making families. My great-grandmother lived to meet and approve my future husband. My Grandaddy loved P-daddy, and lived to give us his blessing. Yet by the time we married in 1999, my large, great family was unrecognizable and my Grandaddy was dead. Some of my Grandmomma's sibs did attend the wedding, but a hurricane kept the Virginians away. When my first daughter was born, no one from the larger family came to visit. In 2004, three weeks after we moved to WA and a week before I delivered my younger son, the last family Christmas Eve Party was celebrated in my father's house, marking the end of a tradition established by my Grandparents in 1956. Clearly unable to attend, we called from the living room of our rental house, thousands of miles away.
We have developed our own family traditions, P-daddy and I, from even before we were officially a family. We mindfully set about doing so because we believe in growing this family, our own family, into something larger than it is; something enduring, that will enrich all our lives for much longer than the period during which our children live with us. Those traditions served us well when we unexpectedly moved across country in the dark of winter, far from any family. The children we are privileged to raise know what to expect with the coming of each season, the celebration of each holiday. They inherently know that this is way their world works, and they count on it. Moving oceans meant little to them because the fundamentals of their lives did not change. One Grandma they loved had always lived far away. Now, all Grandmas do. That's life for them; good life. They know they are loved, and their web stretches far.
For my part, I am not so easily mollified. I miss my Grandmomma. I miss her daily, weekly, on holidays, on birthdays...she shares her May birthday, sometimes with mother's day, sometimes with our second child. I sorrow that she will never see this home, this life, that P-daddy and I have carved for ourselves. Her leukemia and neuropathy guarantee that. While I acknowledge the reality that in my new role as a mother of some of those children she adores, I came under criticism and scrutiny from her that I resented, distance softens those feelings just as it attenuates our interaction. I don't just miss my grandparents, I lament that they are not a part of our daily lives. Although we lived on the coast, my Grandaddy loved the mountains, and to this day, I cannot drive through the mountain forests here without exclaiming aloud how much he would love it here.
We didn't really discuss anything of great importance, but I was enjoying hearing her voice as I went about my motherly duties. There is a connection I have with my Grandmother that I have with no one else. My mother was not nurturing, and her mother, once a super Granny as well, was broken into bitterness by life's long, cruel circumstances. My Grandmomma, however, was only able to bring forth one child. She miscarried another, then never conceived again. She adopted a second son, and the two boys of the same age completed her family. They both married early and quickly produced their first children just three months apart, my cousin and I, both girls. Three more grandchildren later, my Grandmomma found herself surrounded at last with the bounty of children she'd always wanted, and she reveled in it.
My grandmother was the blessing-and-curse MIL we all both fear and wish for. Unbelievably attached to her sons, she truly demanded to be informed when they so much as went out to dinner, lest she call and not get an answer at their home. She cried like a baby and held a family intervention when both sons chose not to continue attending her church, and worse, any church at all. Her intrusive entitlements extended to the grandchildren. If she didn't like the answer she got from a DIL about a health concern, Grandmomma would take the child to her own choice of pedatrician for a second opinion. She'd nag the parents incessantly because their smoking stank up the children's hair and clothing. She'd give the children soap and shampoo along with their other birthday gifts, if she believed the children were looking particularly disheveled that year.
But as with few others on the planet, I can see her motivations were always well-intentioned and pure: she cared for the child first, come what may. She may have been misguided at times, she may have been wrong at times, but even her daughters-in-law never questioned her heart. As one of those children, I was protected, loved and nurtured with a ferocious intensity.
She was also the MIL who would babysit on a moment's notice, even overnight. She never turned anyone away from her table, certainly not her grandchildren, no matter how young the infant. She'd buy clothes and groceries when it just wasn't going to happen otherwise. She took the grandchildren to church, to restaurants, to plays and on vacations. She'd spend weeks-- literally weeks-- with the kids at her house, folding us into her life and rhythms.
All I can compare it to is old-world family life, Southern American style. I grew up in a truly multi-generational family of origin, knowing my great-grandmother well (she died when I was a young adult), being known by her mother (who died when I was a toddler), and having personal relationships with each of my Grandmomma's siblings. We ate together every week, we planned picnics so large they were suited only to parks, we vacationed together, celebrated together, grieved together. My children will not grow up knowing that kind of family community, and it is a loss I fear: the loss of the awareness of belonging to a great web of people, of the safety inherent in such a belonging.
As one of the grandchildren absorbed into their life like that, I remember my grandparents' kitchen. Grandaddy was the cook, but Grandmomma was the manager. We'd have tea every morning, and the aroma from the steaming cups mingled with the smells coming from grits, oatmeal or pancakes, forming the base of an indelible scent-memory that lasts to this day. Unlike the cold cereal or instant grits my mother served me, I could count on my grandparents providing a hot breakfast, punctuated with milk or orange juice, eggs and sausage, bacon or ham, over which we'd linger for more than an hour sometimes, just chatting and enjoying each other. I was loved, and the fact that it took two hours to complete breakfast proved it to me. As much as I don't eat it regularly, breakfast remains my favorite meal.
The 70s happened. The children borne to my Grandmomma's generation became liberated from the ideas and belief systems cherished by their parents.Cousins drifted apart. Love remained, but the sense of remaining physically close with one's family went by the wayside, quite literally. Children had grown up, bearing children of their own. Within that decade, my parents' entire marriage began and ended, climaxing in bitterness and a first for the entire family: children chose divorce. Children chose to come out. Children chose to move away. Children married outside their faith, their nationality, their race. The family began to fragment. Still vital and active in their 50s and 60s, my Grandmomma and her sibs kept their Sunday dinners together, and the holiday traditions they began remained strong while my generation enjoyed it's childhood.
The 80s happened. Unthinkably, three of our nuclear families moved to Virginia. Holiday traditions in Charleston remained, but they were more difficult now that travel was involved. Birthdays became a card and a call. My own mother kept me and my baby sister away from my Grandparents because she didn't like their opinions about her life, or their perceived influence on me, and I didn't have birthdays or holidays with them for 7 years. Alone in a neglectful, dysfunctional household, my memories of safety and belonging to something else drove me to freedom. On my 18th birthday, I bicycled the scant three miles in the punishing June heat from one grandmother's house to the other's, and reclaimed my place in the web. My sister denies ever having a place there. Another fracture, another strand undone.
The 90s happened. All the grandchildren are now grown; going to college, making choices of our own. Making families. My great-grandmother lived to meet and approve my future husband. My Grandaddy loved P-daddy, and lived to give us his blessing. Yet by the time we married in 1999, my large, great family was unrecognizable and my Grandaddy was dead. Some of my Grandmomma's sibs did attend the wedding, but a hurricane kept the Virginians away. When my first daughter was born, no one from the larger family came to visit. In 2004, three weeks after we moved to WA and a week before I delivered my younger son, the last family Christmas Eve Party was celebrated in my father's house, marking the end of a tradition established by my Grandparents in 1956. Clearly unable to attend, we called from the living room of our rental house, thousands of miles away.
We have developed our own family traditions, P-daddy and I, from even before we were officially a family. We mindfully set about doing so because we believe in growing this family, our own family, into something larger than it is; something enduring, that will enrich all our lives for much longer than the period during which our children live with us. Those traditions served us well when we unexpectedly moved across country in the dark of winter, far from any family. The children we are privileged to raise know what to expect with the coming of each season, the celebration of each holiday. They inherently know that this is way their world works, and they count on it. Moving oceans meant little to them because the fundamentals of their lives did not change. One Grandma they loved had always lived far away. Now, all Grandmas do. That's life for them; good life. They know they are loved, and their web stretches far.
For my part, I am not so easily mollified. I miss my Grandmomma. I miss her daily, weekly, on holidays, on birthdays...she shares her May birthday, sometimes with mother's day, sometimes with our second child. I sorrow that she will never see this home, this life, that P-daddy and I have carved for ourselves. Her leukemia and neuropathy guarantee that. While I acknowledge the reality that in my new role as a mother of some of those children she adores, I came under criticism and scrutiny from her that I resented, distance softens those feelings just as it attenuates our interaction. I don't just miss my grandparents, I lament that they are not a part of our daily lives. Although we lived on the coast, my Grandaddy loved the mountains, and to this day, I cannot drive through the mountain forests here without exclaiming aloud how much he would love it here.
So this morning, with the scent of pancakes and coffee interwoven with my Grandmomma's voice, I felt at home. I felt the grounding love for my own children and the tug of the loved child I once was, both informing the adult I now choose to be. And I know my Grandmomma approves. I still have her voice, and she tells me so.
Monday, August 14, 2006
Letters from Grandaddy
Unpacking the last memory box tonight, I found two letters from my Grandaddy, written in 1977. He never wrote in script, just in large, crisp, block print lettering. One read,
It was a letter from my Grandaddy to me, when I was G's age and preoccupied with exactly the same things that she is now. My head is spinning and my heart is aching. He never met my children, and I miss him so damned much.
Dear ~L~,
I hope the tooth fairy comes tonight
Love,
Your Grandaddy
It was a letter from my Grandaddy to me, when I was G's age and preoccupied with exactly the same things that she is now. My head is spinning and my heart is aching. He never met my children, and I miss him so damned much.
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