Desert Trek: Part Two--The Indulgence

So on Saturday we headed west for the border again. We stopped in Tecopa. No, I'd never heard of it either before we drove through it last week. I lived in California for twenty years and drove north across the Mohave many, many times on the way to the Grandmas in Wyoming, but somehow this town escaped my attention. It isn't exactly on the beaten path...but many people do find their way there to soak in the mineral springs. Tecopa isn't a spa a la Palm Springs or La Costa. It's a little desert kind of place where snowbirds hook up their travel trailers to the electricity in the campground across the street from the hots springs buildings, and then walk over in their bathrobes and sandals, with towels draped over their arms.

So, we parked and went in and paid our ten dollars each and went out back to jiggle door handles to find an empty bath. There are several little rooms where you go in, lock the door, take off your clothes, hang them up and then step down into the pool that is about 10 feet square. You are NOT allowed to wear a suit because it could contaminate the mineral water with residue or whatever. The water is about 104 degrees--we only heat our hottub to 100, so this is quite a bit hotter. You'll only last about 20 minutes. But, unless there is a crowd waiting for the tubs, you can go back in again after you cool off a bit.

There is no ceiling in this little "room", it is open to the sky, and the water is just continually dribbling in through a pipe coming through the wall. It smells lovely (unlike the faint chlorine smell of our hottub) and the feel of the water on your skin is soft and silky because of the mineral content. When I get out of our hottub, I always hurry right in for the lotion to soak up my feet and hands. Many times, I'll jump in the shower to rinse off the chlorinated water. But this mineral water just felt wonderful on my skin and I didn't need to slather myself with lotion.

But I got slathered...during the massage I had after the soak. There is a little courtyard in the middle of the soaking rooms, and one of the doorways has a sign identifying this room as the office of a massusse. So I went in and signed up for one hour. If you've never had a massage, then RIGHT NOW google your area and find a theraputic massage office and book yourself an hour of bliss. Ahhhhh....ooohhhhh....ahhhhh. That's all I can say. Someone rubbing your tired old muscles with warm cream while you lay silently on a soft table listening to new age-groovy wah music. OOhhhh....ahhhh. Doing this right after you have soaked yourself into a state of relaxed bliss in a hot mineral spring adds a fillip of decadence. Now, go---google!

Pant, pant, pant

This is the third day that Cool Guy and I have GONE TO THE GYM---yes...and walked vigorously on treadmills. We printed off a 10 day pass and then tonight we actually dived right in and bought the ID cards. We're hoping to stave off decrepidness for a few more years. It's actually quite envigorating and I'm sure my calf muscles will sign on to this program soon.

A Trek in the Desert

We went for a drive on Saturday, headed for Death Valley, but we didn't quite get there. Unlike the classic cartoon of the skeleton in the desert, we were just distracted by a detour. We headed straight west from Las Vegas and after crossing a small but beautiful mountain pass watched over by a big horn sheep perched on an impossibly pointy chunk of rock, we descended into an enormous valley just over the California border that stretched to the horizon in every direction. If you looked up "gawd-forsaken" in the dictionary, it would be a photo of this place. There were no curves in the road--not needed--no obstacles to this highway. Around the rim of the valley to the south were some mountains, so we turned left at that intersection (passing up the chance to buy "elk, bison or beef jerky--FRESH!!") to head over to China Ranch.

The desert is actually quite beautiful in its own way. It is so completely different from the other places I've lived---hardwood forested east-coast; chapparal/beach west-coast; alpine forest Rocky Mountain valley. In the desert you get geology--unfiltered. The variations of the earth's plates are all thrust up and exposed. It is so obvious where each layer begins and ends and sometimes a hill right next to another hill has its layers moving in a completely opposite direction and you hope that God has an IMAX so when you get to heaven you can watch the tectonic wrestling match that must have caused this.

And the colors!! There are some canyons on the west side of Vegas that have the most precise stripes of startling red sandwiched in the layers of beige and brown and tan. It's like Mother Nature made a delicious PBJ and then Father Nature accidently sat on it, curving it around with all the colored layers.

Desert plants are no less amazing. You're gazing out on a scene so stark you'd think it was the moon, when you realize that the sides of these mounds of fossilized gargantuan elephant dung(actually...hills)are dotted with tiny little bushes. The leaves are the size of a piece of oatmeal and there are teeny little flowers in the center of each leaf group just blooming away. What pollinates these flowers? How can they grow in this hill that is just a huge lump of tiny rocks cemented in place by hard pan dirt?

As we go further down the canyon between these giant dung heaps we pass by fenced-off areas with stark red warning signs to stay out of the abandoned gypsum mines that are dug out under these hills. You can see the old timbers supporting the edges of the openings that are cut way back under these mounds. Now you know why the shape of these hills is so unique---they are just huge repositories of this mineral formed under prehistoric Lake Bonneville. As the water evaporated, it left behind these lumps and gradually the desert wind blew in enough soil to form a little eco-system with the essentials to support those tiny plants able to thrive on top of a pile of gypsum. Cool.

Then we turned a corner on this road that had narrowed and become a gravel path and voila! An oasis of date palms and bamboo appears like a mirage! (A cliche--but you can see why the old prospectors had to rub their eyes in disbelief after passing through the miles of moonscape to come upon lush greens and water.)

According to the sign a Chinese man started a farm here at these springs in the 1800's and sold food to nearby mining camps. He "mysteriously" disappeared and someone else took over the property and finally in the 1980's the most recent owners have planted date palms and have a little Bed and Breakfast. The property is only about 50 acres, tops, but it is thick with trees and a couple of ramshackle buildings. A small stream runs through it that is completely obscured by reeds and cottonwoods and apparently just disappears into the ground right outside the hills of this tiny valley. The owners pipe the spring water into their orchard and use drip irrigation to keep their trees alive. They make a living, and it is a lovely place to walk around and smell the moisture and marvel that anyone stayed alive in their trek through the surrounding deserts to find it in the first place.

I found myself thinking that I was grateful my ancestors were cow milkers and chose a remote, high mountain valley that is exquisitely beautiful to establish their dynasty of genteel poverty from which I could descend. I don't think I'd have liked growing up the progeny of hard-scrabble miners in the tiny dry villages that dot this area of no-man's land on the border of California and Nevada. But, many people living here are the off-spring of those crusty old loners, and wouldn't have it any other way.

Cooking with Grandma

I found my favorite recipe today in my little tin box of recipes. I cut this out a long time ago and glued it to a recipe card. I think it is from the San Diego Tribune Food Section. It is very old.

Often I am asked what is my "favorite" recipe. My favorite recipe is Edward Lear's recipe for Gosky Patties.

It goes this way:

"Take a pig three or four years of age, and tie him by the off hind leg to a post. Place five pounds of currants, three of sugar, two pecks of peas, 18 roasted chestnuts, a candle and six bushels of turnips with in his reach; if he eats these, constantly provide him with more.

"Then procure some cream, some slices of Cheshire cheese, four quires of foolscap paper, and a packet of black pins. Work the whole into a paste, and spread it out to dry on a sheet of clean brown water-proof linen.

"When the paste is perfectly dry, but not before, proceed to beat the pig violently with the handle of a large broom. If he squeals, beat him again.

"Visit the paste and beat the pig alternately for some days and ascertain if, at the end of that period, the whole is about to turn into Gosky Patties.

"If it does not then, it never will; and in that case the pig may be let loose, and the whole process may be considered as finished."

Okay, (the food author concludes) that is my favorite recipe.

I admit that it is my favorite, too.

And the Nominees Are....

For most disturbing commercial of the holiday season....the one I just saw with the toddler laughing with his animatronic teddy bear as they "read" together. The female-voice-over says "blah blah blah blah...He's learning to love books with blahtedy-blah-blah products..."

HE'D LEARN TO LOVE BOOKS WITH JUST PLAIN BOOKS AND A PARENT TO "READ" WITH HIM, TOO!

sigh

I'm So Glad When Daddy Comes Home

I read an article on-line today giving advice to married people about that time of day when the Dad comes home to a house where the Mom is often exhausted and frazzled and, instead of having dinner started like she'd planned, is nursing a fussy baby while other small children circle like frenzied hyenas nipping at one another and howling. So, she tends to assign her spouse a job as a response to his "Hi, I'm home!" rather than offer a cheery greeting of her own. I remember those days...but we accidentally stumbled onto a different way that I didn't even know was so special until Cool Guy told me.

When it approached that time of day for his arrival back at the ramshackle structure we loved and lived in, I'd mobilize the forces and we'd quickly clean up the house. It would be strewn with toys and clothes a short time later, but that first impression of order was very soothing to Dad. I usually had something cooking because most of my meals required a long prep as it was cheaper to cook that way. Then...as the magic hour approached...we could hear the motorcycle engine as he powered up the hills that led to our house in San Diego...the kids would rush outside to the porch and the dogs would start to bark and run around in contagious joy...and TA DA---there's our Dad coming up the long driveway on the chopper! Cue the cheering! Cue the jumping up and down! Everyday...same drill.

Well, one day it was raining hard, I needed the car, and so he got a ride to the base and home again with a co-worker. They stopped at this man's house before dropping off Cool Guy and later he recounted how no one even looked up when THIER dad walked in the door. They were watching cartoons, Mom was folding laundry; blah--Dad's home---blah. Cool Guy told me how he was amazed and that right then, realized how much he LOVED coming home everyday, because of his hero's welcome.

Wow. I didn't even know. I didn't make the welcome ceremony happen. It was spontaneous. We were genuinely happy to have him come home everyday. The roaring Harley engine gave us the chance to anticipate it right to the moment, but still, everyone was pleased to welcome our Dad.

Tonight, I'm headed to the airport, again, to do the Welcome Home ceremony. It's a little different now---no barking dogs and leaping children---but I still get the house all tidied up and comb my hair and give him what?? A GREAT BIG KISS!

My Real Life...Back

Everytime there is an extended break from school---like summer in a nine month school--or now, the two weeks for "winter" break, I feel like I have my "real" life back. I have now been teaching full-time for 12 years. You'd think I'd have become accustomed to being a full-time working woman. That is what I am---actually, I usually spend much more than 40 hours on my job each week. But I spent eighteen years without a full-time paid job outside my home. I'm being so careful with that description because during that time, I had day-care kids for nearly five years, and I worked part-time a couple of years in my children's elementary school as a half-day aide, and again, as a substitute teacher. But, these jobs enabled me have essentially the same hours as my schoolkids. My last two babies were taken care of by other paid women off and on throughout the years, but never full-time, never every day. So, I consider this my "working" years. Most of my paid work before teaching was on my schedule, and didn't require me to put my kids in day-care for eight or nine hours a day. I still had hours at home each day with them.

But now when I have an extended break from school, it is such a relief to feel like "normal" again, even though I don't have children living at home. I can help with church things, I can sew, I can go to doctor appointments without a huge production. (Writing lesson plans is a 2:1 kind of activity--it is SO much easier to just teach it yourself.) I can be in my house during the daylight hours. I LOVE IT.

So I'm torn: I love teaching school. I especially love my paycheck. But I really do miss my old life of being available to help other people and do stuff around my house. However, if I had no paycheck I'd be unable to have the luxury I have during my time off to do some of the good things I get to do. So, I should just enjoy my times off, and appreciate that we both had the expectation that while we had kids living at home, I'd get to be their mom--there at home. I'm the one who decided I'd go to college and start working now.

Sexiest Man Alive

People Magazine says that it is George Clooney in 2006.

But---no---the title definitely goes to Cool Guy who is just finishing up the dishes while I balance my checkbook. There is nothing more erotic than a man with a dishtowel in his hand, standing in a clean kitchen that was messy 30 minutes ago.

The Secret to My Success

I had a co-worker come to me today to see what I'd done to get some students moved into another class. Ummm...nothing except be a racist, hateful, white teacher...apparently. She has a very difficult second-grader who hits her and others, and shouts and throws things, and she knows that I started this school year with several really difficult students, three of whom are now in other teachers' rooms. But, seriously, I did nothing but try to get them under control by meeting with their parents and starting a daily behavior log that the parents were to sign every night and return to school.

This behavior log has served me well in the past by enabling me to have a quick conference, hourly, with the student to monitor several behaviors and rate them with a "yes" or "no" for that hour. It helps the student by enabling them to recover from a bad hour or two and go on to having a better day. The parents know each day that there will be an accounting and the student can earn a reward by having improved behavior at school. The whole idea is to help the child change old habits and, of course, make my life easier. EXCEPT---that I forgot those pesky Hidden Rules.

So I used the behavior chart for a couple of weeks with these students, but there wasn't any obvious improvement. But I did get remarks from the parents in their reply space to the effect of "[My darling wonderful child] will stop teasing [hideous pest in your room] when he stops teasing her." or...[Fabulous charming boy of mine] says that the whole bathroom problem was all [dreadful wretched other boy's] fault. You only punished my boy. I want to meet with the other parents and the principal to solve this once and for all." Hmmm...

So, another tenet of Ruby Payne is that changing behavior is not the goal of punishment. In generational poverty, people are punished by withdrawal of affection/attention. Then, when the person in charge considers that the punishment has lasted long enough, the attention/affection is returned. But no expectation is ever made that the punished one will change the behavior because of the punishment. People just are what they are---they can't be expected to reform, improve, change. That would imply that one has power over one's fate and that simply isn't so in this world.

So, my presumptious and rude implication that their child should alter their behavior by annoying everyone with my little pieces of paper was actually just the last straw. The first straw being that I would complain to them about something the kid did in my classroom. It IS the classroom after all---keep it there. They don't bring me their troubles from home, do they? (No, they don't actually bring them...they come on the school bus.)

But the ultimate outcome was that my meddling in their affairs by attempting to enlist them in the education of their offspring was just the final evidence of my unrelenting unfairness toward them and all their family, and the only reason that I could possibly have for this horrible behavior would be my ugly racist attitudes.

But, since, ultimately, I no longer have to deal with their student on a day to day basis--no problem. Call me what you will---just move your child to some other teacher's room if that'll make you happy. I know it made me happy.

Party Girl

I just got back from Maryland where I was on the ground for just 25 hours. I went to a party. It all started when Cool Guy said to me (in September when we were at a wedding reception) "Wouldn't it be great if you came to my company Christmas party? We'd have a good time and everyone could finally meet you and see what a fox you are." Well, how could I say no? Except that the party was on a Tuesday night---the middle of the school week. Well, I decided to throw caution to the wind and go anyway. I wrote two days of lesson plans (and you know teaching...it's twice as much work to tell someone else what to teach as it is to just be there and do it yourself.)

I left Vegas on the midnight red-eye, landed in DC at 7:00 A.M. , took the Metro out to the Southern Maryland stop and he picked me up and drove down to our place there. I slept for a few hours while he went over to the base and worked. Then we drove up to Baltimore, checked into the hotel, dressed and went to the party. I'd bought a really nifty red silk mandarin style jacket to wear over a black silk skirt and (in my quest to replace my jewelry) found some marcasite and garnet earrings to go with it. We had yummy hors d'oeuvres and chatting. We sat down for the salad and entrees (filet of beef with roasted vegetables) and chose creme brulee for dessert. It is a small company, about 25 people were there, and it is an interesting mix of young and old, Israeli and American, military vets (from both countries) yarmulkes, and male and female. A surprising number of wives are teachers from such a small sample of men. So there was fascinating conversation and, as the wine bottles emptied, hilarious and sometimes ribald, jokes. I had to get up the next morning after only five hours of sleep to get back to the airport and I landed back in the desert at 10:30 A.M. But my sense of time is very distorted after two nights of limited sleep and radical time zone shifts. I'll get some sleep tonight, because tomorrow, I'm back to my old job of just being a fourth grade teacher.

But--overall---was it worth it? Well, of course!! How often does an old lady get to fly first-class just to go to a party as eye-candy on the arm of a cute guy?

The Time Is: 11:00 P.M.

Last time we were with S-Boogie, Grampa Cool Guy let her play with his watch. It's a pretty cool watch with lots of buttons and sounds and gizmoes. It even lights up. There's an alarm, too. We know, because S-Boogie set it for 11:00 P.M. and every night it beeps right on the dot. It keeps on beeping after all these months because we're not quite sure where the direction book is and, so far, the various things that Grampa Cool Guy has tried haven't un-set the alarm. We need to go see the grandchildren so S-Boogie can fix Grampa's watch. In the meantime, everynight at 11:00 P.M. we have a sweet little reminder that she's a pretty clever girl. Like we needed to be reminded!

Oyster Snobbery

I bought some really delicious looking oysters to put in my stuffing for Thanksgiving and they were very fresh and yummy. They were from Washington state. But when we ate the rest of them in oyster stew, I realized that my oyster love is definitely reserved for those "arsters drudged" from Chesapeake Bay. There's something about those bivalves that are absolutely fabulous. They are mild and light tasting--eating them is like breathing the air near the ocean--light, sweet & salty all at once. The west coast oysters were good, and the milk broth was just fine, but the oysters themselves were just too strong. They weren't "gone 'round the bend" bad, just too strong.

My oyster love started when Cool Guy and I went to a seafood restaurant in Malibu. We tried some raw on the half-shell and they were really yummy. Then, five years later we moved to Southern Maryland where oysters were king for many years, and now, in their decline, are still pretty darned regal. We ate them at the seafood restaurant near our house. The oysters there were so fresh they had probably been dredged that very day. Then we went to the National Oyster Shucking Championships at the county fairgrounds and totally gorged ourselves. Once we were gifted with a gallon of freshly shucked oysters by our son who brought them home from the restaurant where he cooked. They were closing for a week and all the fresh food went home with the workers. Wow. We had them fried, stewed, baked and creamed. I used my cookbook from the oyster shucking festival! Ymmmmmmm. We really didn't get sick of oysters everyday for five straight.

When I was a girl, my dad used to have oyster stew several nights a week. He'd open that can of oysters to pour into the hot milk and I'd have to leave the room. They looked like boogers and tasted like an old shoe filled with horse poop. Blecchh...

Don't know why as an adult I've gained a taste for them---raw, no less! Guess I have to make up for all the oysters my dad missed out on since he died too young. Happy to do my part, Daddy.

Baby, It's Cold Outside

Ha! Looking at my weather box on the computer I see that everywhere I've ever lived, or my children (in the western hemisphere) are living is FREEZING COLD. Even here in Vegas Baby. But...wait...in Southern Maryland it is warm! What? That's just wrong. Oh well, at least the brothers are not shivering. The rest of the family is.

But of course, if we were in Port Hueneme, the 65 Degree Town, we'd be okay, too. My friend there used to say that it would either get up to 65 or down to 65, but everyday, it would be 65. And in six years---I can validate her remark. Hmmm...California.

Olive Blah

I have always like Olive Garden's soup and salad combo. Their soups are tasty, the salad dressing delicious, the breadsticks to die for. So tonight, I thought I'd stop there, get that for dinner, and take home another entree to feed myself for the next two days before the Season of Cooking officially begins. Blah...what a yucky experience! My soup was tasty, but they apparently just chopped and tossed in the kale about two seconds before serving it to me. What? Then the salad: a pathetic collection of the yellowed inner leaves of really old iceberg. You know, that bitter core part? And TWO, count them (apparently someone did!) TWO olives!!! Come on!! One measly peppericini and two tiny tomato slices. GOOD GRIEF--I've had better salad at Denny's. And the ultimate failure: pasty, undercooked breadsticks. I got there at 5:00 P.M. so I figured they wouldn't be too busy. Wrong. Evidently they were "between shifts" or something. My server disappeared shortly after I finished eating what I could of my icky salad and raw breadsticks. So I finished off the soup. Sat there. Sat there. Sat there. Someone cleared my table. I sat and sat waiting for my check. But I didn't see the server again! Finally I went up to the front and asked a hostess to find her. She appeared with the take out bag, handed it to me and said bye. I could have just walked right out, because no one seemed to notice that I'd never been asked to pay anything by anyone. I offered my money to the bartender, but he had to find the server and eventually she came back and charged me. Sheesh...it'll be a long time before I go there again. Bummer, I really love their breadsticks and soup. Guess I'll have to find an Olive Garden in another part of town. Or another town---it was all too much like many of my Vegas experiences.

Things I Wouldn't Camp in Front of A Store to Get

Tonight I stopped off at Target and there were seven people in lawn chairs sitting in a line outside the door. One person had a small tent pitched at the end of the line. I asked why they were there and one woman said, "To get away from my kids!" I told her that was a good enough reason for me. What they were actually doing, however was lining up for tomorrow morning's release of the new Play Station version whatever.

This, I would not camp in front of a store to get.

But then, we did without t.v. for eight years. It broke, we couldn't really afford the part right then for Cool Guy to fix it, and after about a week, we looked at one another and said, "Hey, this is pretty nice...." and threw it away.

Now, mind you--our children were 4 and 2 and 1...there was no cable t.v. yet...no one at our house watched sports...VCR's weren't invented yet...and we loved to listen to music and read. Although, one year I had two children who quit my home daycare after a week when they couldn't handle living in a house, even for three hours after school, without a t.v. or a video game set-up.

I grew up in a home where the television was mostly always on. I loved and still love to watch the tube. But, honestly, we rarely missed it! Occasionally, I'd rent one for Christmas break, still pre-cable, but we lived in a big city and so could easily get the broadcast channels. And no one was forbidden to go to a friend's house and watch it now and then. But mostly our kids played and read and made crafts and dressed up and wrote family newspapers, and dug huge pits in the pathetically ratty backyards we seemed to always have. And had wars with GI Joes during which Barbie was taken as prisoner and inevitably died and a funeral and burial followed. (I didn't buy Barbies again after she was lost in an unmarked grave...)

We bought a t.v. again one year after Cool Guy was given a broken VCR which he repaired. We figured we could watch movies. Well, cable had been invented and so we started watching regularly again. But, if we wanted to see a show at 8:00 and then another one at 10:00, we'd shut it off in between. And we still read books, and played GI Joes and made crafts and dug huge pits in the backyard (curious how that activity remained popular over the years even as the children grew older.)

But at no time would I have considered owning a game console. Yes, I was [and am] the evil mother who would not permit one to be purchased and installed. Okay, we had computer games. But no way, no how, will I ever live in a house with a game console. To me it is the equivalent of crack for kids. I've taught nine year olds for 12 years. And the kids who play a lot of video games have no imagination for story-telling. They do not read for fun. They don't even play outside very often! They live, eat, and breath X-BOX/GAMECUBE/PS3/whatever. I think it is a path to brain inertia at the least, and brain damage at the worst.

So, you'll never find me camped outside a store, waiting for the release of the newest, bestest, coolest brain-cell sucking object for my children. I just laughed with/at them in a nice way and went into the store.

I didn't tell them that as a parent and a school teacher I was appalled and horrified that they would waste the time and the money on something so destined to stunt their child's intellectual growth and physical health. Since none of them asked.

Kitty Cat Schedule

5:00 A.M. Get on the bed and knead the bladder of the sleeping person so she will wake up and let you out the door. Even though there is a perfectly fine cat box right there by the door.

6:45 A.M. Sit on the counter and sniff everything that the person is putting into her lunch box. Lick the top of her glass of milk.

7:15 A.M. ---6:00 P.M. Nap

6:01 P.M. Hearing the garage door open, assume position on front rug in order to meow loudly as soon as she walks in the kitchen door.

6:01 --- 6:15 P.M. Continue meowing loudly until the kitty-chicken is served. (If foolish person does anything prior to kitty-chicken service continue meowing as you follow her around and, if necessary, jump up and pound on her leg if she still fails to deliver the kitty-chicken.)

6:15--6:18 P.M. Gobble down half of kitty-chicken.

6:18--7:00 P.M. Rush back and forth between patio and kitchen and living room in a state of delirious dervishness for reasons known only to Kitty-Cats.

7:00 P.M. Curl up at the side of person correcting math tests on the couch.

10:30 P.M. Curl up beside person who FINALLY went to bed.

Repeat....

Forgetting the Hidden Rules

In coming here to teach in a very poor part of this town, I spent several weeks over the first summer in a class sponsored by the school district that, among other things, gave us some specific information on generational poverty and its impact on student learning and behavior.

I forgot some important parts of it this year. And it has led to serious misunderstandings with parents and students--but definitely parents.

Ruby Payne, PhD. has a terrific book about this and one important part is about the hidden rules. She points out this:

Understanding and Working with Students and Adults from Poverty:
The hidden rules of the middle class govern schools and work; students from generational poverty
come with a completely different set of hidden rules.
In generational poverty, the driving forces are survival,
entertainment, and relationships. That is why you will have a student whose Halloween costume cost $30 but the textbook bill is not paid. Relationships and entertainment are more important than
achievement.

Hidden Rules
Generational Poverty

The driving forces for decision
making are survival,
relationships, and
entertainment.

People are possessions. It is
worse to steal someone’s
girlfriend than a thing. A
relationship is valued over
achievement. That is why you
must defend your child no
matter what he or she has done.*

(*there are several others...this is the relevant one)

So, when I invited the guardian of one of my most difficult students to come over one afternoon and sit in my class to help me keep him under control---as she volunteered to do on several occasions---it was a mistake. It actually just allowed her to "gather evidence" that indeed, the white teacher wasn't being fair to her "boy" because other students talked some, and other students were off task, too, now and then. So WHY WAS I PICKING ON HIM???[her surrogate person--therefore I'm picking on the adult]

I had forgotten the hidden rules. When I had a child acting badly in a class years ago, I volunteered to come and sit in the back of the room and the humilation factor for that young teen worked great!! I only had to do it twice before I was promised (and the promise was kept) that no more bad behavior would interrupt that teacher's class.

It's those pesky middle class values: you can change your behavior because you are in charge of you; the future DOES matter; education is important. I can't forget that I'm working in a different culture, and I need to play by the rules.

The Creeping Alarm Clock

Every Sunday night, I get to bed before ten. I set my alarm for 5:30, I go to sleep, I get up right on the dot. Then, I'm at school by 6:45 A.M. and I get a lot of prep done and I'm ON THE BALL. Tuesday, I get up about 5:45, then by Wed. I've moved the alarm time to 6:00 and sometimes I barely get to school on Friday by 8:20, my official start time. I just don't know what happens...But I'm beginning to get a clue---

THERE ARE NOT ENOUGH HOURS IN THE DAY TO GET "FINISHED" IN THE ELEMENTARY SCHOOL TEACHER'S JOB.

Do other employees experience this??

I know farmers do, and mothers do. So...why the heck did I choose teacher after 20 years of farming, and 25 years of mothering? This is sick.

Jeopardy! Lite

Okay, okay, It's really an addiction when you're willing to watch Jeopardy! even during Celebrity Week. Blah. Many of the questions have to do with topical-to-the-celebrity items such as Broadway, NYC, t.v. etc. But yesterday there was a catagory called "Molecular Biology". It was no doubt to flatter the guests/contestants so that the catagory on deli foods wasn't so obviously for the non-thinkers. (ooh this is getting mean) But, when the celebs finally ventured into the biology catagory the first thing that occurred to me was "These are questions they would have asked during Kid Jeopardy! week..." Something on the lines of..."What legume did Mendel study to learn about genetics?" and today all three of them stood mute till the time ran out because NONE of them could tell who was president when Fort Sumter was fired on. Sigh. But I still sat there and watched. Sigh. I really need to get out more.

The Evolving Roles of Mother

According to a post on her fabulous website , I recently caused my daughter to cry from happiness. (Well, at least get teary-eyed.) I'm pleased to have made it to this phase of our relationship. I've caused her to cry a number of times in our lives, and most of them were NOT from happiness. And I'm very sorry for all of those times, except for the (extremely rare) ones where she was being really naughty and spanking was the inevitable consequence.

But---I vividly remember several instances where the tears were a result of my careless, rude blurting out of the first (usually self-centered) thing that popped into my head without regard to her view or feelings. And these are the ones I wish to officially apologize for now and for the remaining years of our lives...hopefully there will be fewer and fewer of these events. They shall remain unenumerated because I'm confident that there are more instances of which I am unaware than any that I could recount.

Here's to a future of more happy tears!