Inertia is an amazingly powerful force, I’ve come to realize. Especially on me.
And more so now than ever, it seems. These days, unlike when the kids were really little and I was home with them, or the years following that when I was working in an office full-time, I spend my work days at home, at my kitchen table, writing. For six hours at a time. It’s the solitude and uninterrupted writing time I’ve craved for years, and now that I have it, I don’t care what the assignment is – I can be working on an article for the Globe, or writing about varicose veins for my client who runs a medical website, or studying up on football stats for the next segment I need to draft for my client who is compiling a book about pro football, or revising my own manuscript-in-progress yet again – it doesn’t matter what the topic, I’m grateful just to have the time to write.
Sometimes a little too grateful. I find it very hard to make myself get up and do anything else.
I know that mental stimulation is important during the work day even when I’m on deadline. I just have trouble sometimes overcoming the urge to just stay where I am and keep writing.
A couple of weeks ago, a friend of mine here in town hosted a midmorning gathering. I was in the middle of a writing assignment, and it started to rain hard. “I should go to this get-together, but it’s so tempting to just stay put,” I said to a client who called to discuss an upcoming project. Since Carlisle is almost entirely a driving town rather than a walking town, there’s always the additional excuse that staying home is more environmentally sound than going anywhere.
“Just go. You’ll be glad you made the effort,” she replied.
I was puzzled. The client hardly knows me; she doesn’t know the host of the party or any of the other guests who would be there; and she wasn’t even close enough geographically to see how hard it was raining. Why was she so sure I should go?
But then I thought about the note I’d have to write apologizing if I didn’t show up, and how sheepish I’d feel next time I saw the host. And so I reminded myself it was less than a ten-minute drive to the party; I could stay for 40 minutes and not be away from my desk for more than an hour total.
Needless to say, it was the right decision. The house was full of cheerful, welcoming faces, hot coffee and fragrant baked goods. I caught up with friends I hadn’t seen since before summer vacation. I traded opinions on local issues and heard updates on the construction project at our school that I should have known about from the newspaper but hadn’t taken the time to follow closely.
Best of all, I didn’t have to write a sheepish apology attempting to excuse my absence.
Yesterday it wasn’t a social occasion that pulled me away from my desk but an unexpected offer from my father to drive me thirty minutes to the repair shop where my car was being fixed. I could have just waited until the end of the day and gotten a ride from Rick, as I’d planned to do. As before, the lure of sitting at my computer writing was almost irresistible.
But so was the chance to have a few minutes to visit alone with my father, and doing that particular drive in the midafternoon was a much better idea than waiting for rush hour. And so I shut down my computer and climbed into his car.
We had a great visit. Not for any particular reason – we talked about an issue related to town government, recent segments we’d heard on NPR, nothing weighty – but it was just good to get away from the silence of my workday and spend a little undistracted time with my father. On the way back, having picked up my car and said goodbye to him, I even prolonged the trip with a stop at the supermarket, taking advantage of the midafternoon lull there to enjoy empty aisles and no lines.
It’s good to be able to focus on work. I’m really grateful that my workday affords me such solitude, but I’m also glad that once in a while something compels me to overcome my inertia. Thoreau wrote that he had one chair for solitude, two for company, and three for society. It’s a useful image to keep in mind. The work day shouldn’t be all about that one chair. Even Thoreau, who moved to a cabin in the woods to live deliberately and in relative solitude, knew that once in a while he should really pull out those two other chairs.
Friday, October 29, 2010
Thursday, October 28, 2010
The "hidden curriculum": What my kids learn in the classroom beyond the academic
On Parents’ Night last month, Holly’s teacher brought up a subtle point that I had never heard a teacher address before when he briefly touched on the subject of how public school is different from home-schooling. Beyond the obvious facts that public school follows a more prescribed curriculum than homeschooling usually does and proceeds at a more standardized pace, he used the term “hidden curriculum” to describe the skills kids develop when they are compelled to learn in a context of 19 other kids.
According to my notes, the “hidden curriculum” he referred to includes the following skills:
* Learning to question peers
* Developing respect for other people’s learning styles
* Thinking before speaking
* Learning to compromise
In a way, none of this is surprising. Those of us who enthusiastically support public education (and I concede that in a town like Carlisle that’s easy to do; we spend a lot of money on our schools and the results are magnificent in terms of teachers, resources and curriculum) are already convinced of the value of learning in a non-selective group of twenty or more kids. But the way Holly’s teacher laid it out was particularly eye-opening to me.
For example, “developing respect for other people’s learning styles.” In the simplest sense, this may mean realizing some kids learn better when they read instructions to themselves and some when they hear instructions read aloud. But Holly is already becoming more sensitive to the nuances of how other children learn – and what the ramifications of a variety of learning styles can be. She has had a classmate for several years who can be very high-energy and not infrequently ends up in the principal’s office as a result. In past years, she would just shrug when telling me stories about this classmate, as if his behavior was a pure mystery to her, but a few weeks ago she said to me, “I think it’s just that he’s so smart, and he gets bored waiting for everyone else to understand what he’s already figured out, so he gets kind of wild while he’s waiting.” Not a bad assessment for an eight-year-old.
"Thinking before speaking"? That may be a challenge for young children, but it's unavoidable in a setting in which the odds are that 19 times out of 20, when you have something to say, it's someone else's turn to talk.
“Learning to compromise” is another one that seems to happen all the time in the public school setting: when they work in small groups on a project or a challenge; when the class votes on a reward such as extra recess versus extra reading time; on the playground. Just yesterday, Holly told me each child in her class was asked to write down his or her top four choices for a role in the Thanksgiving play. Gracefully accepting the teacher’s decision will require plenty of compromise on the kids’ parts. (For the record, Holly told me her choices for roles were child, turkey, Native American and grandfather, in that order. I guess I’d better hold off on costume-making for now.)
Both Tim and Holly’s teachers throughout the years have done a great job at reinforcing all the skills Holly’s teacher outlined as the “hidden curriculum.” Just as with academics, these are skills that will last them all the way through school and into whatever follows: professional environments, teams, even family life. I’m still working on those skills myself. But seeing them laid out so clearly gave me a new appreciation for their importance.
According to my notes, the “hidden curriculum” he referred to includes the following skills:
* Learning to question peers
* Developing respect for other people’s learning styles
* Thinking before speaking
* Learning to compromise
In a way, none of this is surprising. Those of us who enthusiastically support public education (and I concede that in a town like Carlisle that’s easy to do; we spend a lot of money on our schools and the results are magnificent in terms of teachers, resources and curriculum) are already convinced of the value of learning in a non-selective group of twenty or more kids. But the way Holly’s teacher laid it out was particularly eye-opening to me.
For example, “developing respect for other people’s learning styles.” In the simplest sense, this may mean realizing some kids learn better when they read instructions to themselves and some when they hear instructions read aloud. But Holly is already becoming more sensitive to the nuances of how other children learn – and what the ramifications of a variety of learning styles can be. She has had a classmate for several years who can be very high-energy and not infrequently ends up in the principal’s office as a result. In past years, she would just shrug when telling me stories about this classmate, as if his behavior was a pure mystery to her, but a few weeks ago she said to me, “I think it’s just that he’s so smart, and he gets bored waiting for everyone else to understand what he’s already figured out, so he gets kind of wild while he’s waiting.” Not a bad assessment for an eight-year-old.
"Thinking before speaking"? That may be a challenge for young children, but it's unavoidable in a setting in which the odds are that 19 times out of 20, when you have something to say, it's someone else's turn to talk.
“Learning to compromise” is another one that seems to happen all the time in the public school setting: when they work in small groups on a project or a challenge; when the class votes on a reward such as extra recess versus extra reading time; on the playground. Just yesterday, Holly told me each child in her class was asked to write down his or her top four choices for a role in the Thanksgiving play. Gracefully accepting the teacher’s decision will require plenty of compromise on the kids’ parts. (For the record, Holly told me her choices for roles were child, turkey, Native American and grandfather, in that order. I guess I’d better hold off on costume-making for now.)
Both Tim and Holly’s teachers throughout the years have done a great job at reinforcing all the skills Holly’s teacher outlined as the “hidden curriculum.” Just as with academics, these are skills that will last them all the way through school and into whatever follows: professional environments, teams, even family life. I’m still working on those skills myself. But seeing them laid out so clearly gave me a new appreciation for their importance.
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Late-afternoon walk on a warm fall day
The weather turned unseasonably warm overnight on Monday. Yesterday felt like a mid-September day: the air was mild and a touch humid. After last week’s chilly late-October weather, it felt wonderful, like a last chance to warm up from the inside out before winter begins its slow but inexorable approach.
As is often the case, even though I rode my exercise bike before dawn and went running later in the morning, by the end of the day – five o’clock or so – I didn’t feel like I’d had any exercise at all, having spent a solid eight hours sitting at my computer writing (very happily, I should add, but still very immovably). And with such gloriously warm weather, along with a couple of letters to mail and checks to deposit, it felt like the ideal time for a late-day walk up to the Town Center.
I didn’t expect anyone to want to join me, and Tim predictably opted to stay home, but Holly scrambled for her shoes when I told her what I was doing. Having her join me for a walk is a rare treat; I wasn’t going to jinx it by asking any questions about her intent.
The two-mile circuit took us forever, but it was worth it. We had such a good time. Holly found a flat stone about half the size of her hand and stopped repeatedly throughout our walk to knock it against various surfaces and see what kind of tone it made. Trees, boulders, metal pipes, a street sign. At the post office, she played a little tune by finding three metal posts next to each other that each resonated at a different pitch. I’m not one of those moms who stops throughout a walk to point out different kinds of leaves or identify birds flying overhead, but Holly made this walk educational in her own way with nothing more than a small flat stone.
We saw friends, dogs, and a little boy dressed as a Minuteman for a pre-Halloween event. Holly bought the obligatory snack at Ferns, and I mailed my letters and deposited my checks. We saw the middle school soccer team returning by bus from an away game, and we discussed whether an area in a field where a large tree recently toppled over would make a good spot for a future picnic. (Holly’s idea of planning a picnic is reciting to me a list of all the menu items I’ll need to make. In this case, it had better be planned for at least two weeks away, and we might need a pack mule to help us transport the food, based on her ideas.)
Walks don’t necessarily progress very fast when Holly is involved. Dusk settled; then darkness fell before we were home. The warm air made it enjoyable to be out walking even after dark, though. We scuffed through piles of dry leaves as we headed down the driveway in blackness at the end, well into our usual dinner hour. It was late, but we’d had a great time. An unseasonably warm fall day: a long slow late-afternoon walk. Yesterday, it was a perfect combination.
As is often the case, even though I rode my exercise bike before dawn and went running later in the morning, by the end of the day – five o’clock or so – I didn’t feel like I’d had any exercise at all, having spent a solid eight hours sitting at my computer writing (very happily, I should add, but still very immovably). And with such gloriously warm weather, along with a couple of letters to mail and checks to deposit, it felt like the ideal time for a late-day walk up to the Town Center.
I didn’t expect anyone to want to join me, and Tim predictably opted to stay home, but Holly scrambled for her shoes when I told her what I was doing. Having her join me for a walk is a rare treat; I wasn’t going to jinx it by asking any questions about her intent.
The two-mile circuit took us forever, but it was worth it. We had such a good time. Holly found a flat stone about half the size of her hand and stopped repeatedly throughout our walk to knock it against various surfaces and see what kind of tone it made. Trees, boulders, metal pipes, a street sign. At the post office, she played a little tune by finding three metal posts next to each other that each resonated at a different pitch. I’m not one of those moms who stops throughout a walk to point out different kinds of leaves or identify birds flying overhead, but Holly made this walk educational in her own way with nothing more than a small flat stone.
We saw friends, dogs, and a little boy dressed as a Minuteman for a pre-Halloween event. Holly bought the obligatory snack at Ferns, and I mailed my letters and deposited my checks. We saw the middle school soccer team returning by bus from an away game, and we discussed whether an area in a field where a large tree recently toppled over would make a good spot for a future picnic. (Holly’s idea of planning a picnic is reciting to me a list of all the menu items I’ll need to make. In this case, it had better be planned for at least two weeks away, and we might need a pack mule to help us transport the food, based on her ideas.)
Walks don’t necessarily progress very fast when Holly is involved. Dusk settled; then darkness fell before we were home. The warm air made it enjoyable to be out walking even after dark, though. We scuffed through piles of dry leaves as we headed down the driveway in blackness at the end, well into our usual dinner hour. It was late, but we’d had a great time. An unseasonably warm fall day: a long slow late-afternoon walk. Yesterday, it was a perfect combination.
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Don't sweat the sweatshirts (or should I?)
I did not expect to be fighting the Sweatshirt Wars yet again. But just as her brother did three years ago (though certainly not because he did), Holly wants to wear the same sweatshirt to school every single day. And it’s really displeasing to Rick and me.
With Tim, it was a bright red hoodie. He liked it so much throughout third grade that he wrote a poem about it and read it at an Authors’ Tea. All the parents laughed, because by that time in the school year – March, I believe – pretty much everyone associated with the class had seen plenty of Tim in his red sweatshirt. For that matter, pretty much everyone in Eastern Massachusetts had probably seen Tim in his red sweatshirt, because it was all he ever wore. Fortunately, that ended once the weather warmed up. As temperatures climbed over 60, he finally, mercifully, shed the red sweatshirt and instead wore a Heinz catsup t-shirt every day for the next seven months.
We didn’t expect to have the same problem with Holly. Wearing the same thing every day is a boy thing, I figured. Even if she’s no fashion plate, surely she’ll have a basic sense of style and hygiene that will inspire her to want to put on a different outfit per 24-hour cycle.
Wrong. She picked out a pullover hoodie at Old Navy on our back-to-school shopping excursion Labor Day weekend and hasn’t taken it off since.
Well, that’s not exactly true. She’s taken it off plenty, but only because we insist that she wear a different layer under it every day. In fact, we wrote this into the kids’ school-year contract this year: “No wearing the same shirt on consecutive days.” So they found a loophole: they each change their t-shirts every morning, and then throw the same old sweatshirt over it.
It’s a dilemma for me how much to care and how hard to crack down. On the one hand, compared to so many things, it’s trivial. It’s just clothes, and as I said, this isn’t a matter of bad hygiene; it’s her outer layer. (I wash the sweatshirt once a week or more, while she’s sleeping.) Don’t sweat the small stuff, I tell myself. Pick your battles. There are enough topics I need to crack down on, from effective teeth-brushing to doing homework to not purposely provoking her brother into physical violence against her. Wearing the same sweatshirt every day won’t result in cavities, failing third grade or bruises. What’s the big deal?
On the other hand, from a fashion standpoint it’s embarrassing. Holly has plenty of clothes, drawers-ful: things I’ve bought for her, items she’s picked out herself, gifts from family members, hand-me-downs from cousins and neighbors. She could wear a different outfit every day of the month if she wanted to. And I have to believe other parents wonder why we let her do this. (I have to believe that because, I admit, I use to wonder the same thing about parents who let their kids wear the same thing over and over back when my kids were still too young to dress themselves.)
I’m still vacillating. I really wish she’d tire of the sweatshirt; heaven knows everyone else in Carlisle probably has. On the other hand, if she did, she’d probably just fall in love with a different article of clothing. And at least I don’t have the problem some of Holly’s friends’ mothers do where their daughters insist on changing clothes three or four times before leaving for school in the morning. No one can accuse Holly of being overly preoccupied with physical appearance.
I don’t know the answer. Maybe I’ll take her shopping this weekend and see if she can find one or two other items of apparel to alternate the sweatshirt with.
And if I’m really lucky? At least one of them will be reversible.
With Tim, it was a bright red hoodie. He liked it so much throughout third grade that he wrote a poem about it and read it at an Authors’ Tea. All the parents laughed, because by that time in the school year – March, I believe – pretty much everyone associated with the class had seen plenty of Tim in his red sweatshirt. For that matter, pretty much everyone in Eastern Massachusetts had probably seen Tim in his red sweatshirt, because it was all he ever wore. Fortunately, that ended once the weather warmed up. As temperatures climbed over 60, he finally, mercifully, shed the red sweatshirt and instead wore a Heinz catsup t-shirt every day for the next seven months.
We didn’t expect to have the same problem with Holly. Wearing the same thing every day is a boy thing, I figured. Even if she’s no fashion plate, surely she’ll have a basic sense of style and hygiene that will inspire her to want to put on a different outfit per 24-hour cycle.
Wrong. She picked out a pullover hoodie at Old Navy on our back-to-school shopping excursion Labor Day weekend and hasn’t taken it off since.
Well, that’s not exactly true. She’s taken it off plenty, but only because we insist that she wear a different layer under it every day. In fact, we wrote this into the kids’ school-year contract this year: “No wearing the same shirt on consecutive days.” So they found a loophole: they each change their t-shirts every morning, and then throw the same old sweatshirt over it.
It’s a dilemma for me how much to care and how hard to crack down. On the one hand, compared to so many things, it’s trivial. It’s just clothes, and as I said, this isn’t a matter of bad hygiene; it’s her outer layer. (I wash the sweatshirt once a week or more, while she’s sleeping.) Don’t sweat the small stuff, I tell myself. Pick your battles. There are enough topics I need to crack down on, from effective teeth-brushing to doing homework to not purposely provoking her brother into physical violence against her. Wearing the same sweatshirt every day won’t result in cavities, failing third grade or bruises. What’s the big deal?
On the other hand, from a fashion standpoint it’s embarrassing. Holly has plenty of clothes, drawers-ful: things I’ve bought for her, items she’s picked out herself, gifts from family members, hand-me-downs from cousins and neighbors. She could wear a different outfit every day of the month if she wanted to. And I have to believe other parents wonder why we let her do this. (I have to believe that because, I admit, I use to wonder the same thing about parents who let their kids wear the same thing over and over back when my kids were still too young to dress themselves.)
I’m still vacillating. I really wish she’d tire of the sweatshirt; heaven knows everyone else in Carlisle probably has. On the other hand, if she did, she’d probably just fall in love with a different article of clothing. And at least I don’t have the problem some of Holly’s friends’ mothers do where their daughters insist on changing clothes three or four times before leaving for school in the morning. No one can accuse Holly of being overly preoccupied with physical appearance.
I don’t know the answer. Maybe I’ll take her shopping this weekend and see if she can find one or two other items of apparel to alternate the sweatshirt with.
And if I’m really lucky? At least one of them will be reversible.
Monday, October 25, 2010
Reluctant running
I admit that I tend to wax exultant when I talk about running. I’ve expended a lot of ink over the past couple of decades writing about all the great things running has done for me. And I’ve expended a lot more ink over the past three years, both real and virtual, on the benefits of streak running, ever since I committed in August of 2007 to run every day without taking any days off. I’ve written about how it keeps me focused, it gives me the sense of stability that comes from a daily habit, it reassures me that there’s something in my life that I do exclusively for myself, and not to benefit anyone else. Mostly, I’ve written about how committing to daily running means never having to decide whether or not it’s a good day to go for a run. I don’t have to waste time coming up with reasons to go running or excuses not to anymore, because I go no matter what.
What I don’t admit quite so often is that occasionally, there are days when I really don’t want to go, days when I just don’t see how my going running is going to change anything in anyone’s life, even my own. I know from a fitness perspective it wouldn’t really matter if I took a day off now and then. And I know the idea that I’m committed to a daily run isn’t particularly significant in anyone’s mind except my own.
Mostly, it’s a daily habit that I relish and a part of the day I look forward to eagerly. But there are some days when it’s not like that. Yesterday was one of them.
I just didn’t feel like going. For reasons unrelated to running, I was feeling both irritable and overscheduled. A household problem was causing me a great deal of frustration, and although usually running improves my state of mind, this problem was intractable enough that I was certain running couldn’t possibly make me feel any differently where that was concerned. I also felt like I had so much to fit in: church in the morning, then a bunch of errands and a flu shot; then I had promised I’d get to Tim’s baseball game for a few innings; and I wanted to drop in to see my high school friend Courtney, who was in town from North Carolina visiting her local family members. I wanted to spend a little bit of time with my parents, and I wanted to get a head start on the week’s writing assignments, and I wanted to make a well-planned-out and nutritious dinner for my family.
I did not want to fit in a run.
But the streak registry keeps me honest. Having paid my yearly dues is incentive enough not to fall off the wagon; I’m listed on the registry, and it would be so disheartening to have to take the necessary bureaucratic steps to inform the powers that be if I no longer deserved my place on it. The membership fee for the year paid, I might as well get my money’s worth.
Yes, there are some days that running doesn’t feel quite so magnificent as it does most days. Yesterday I countered the fact that I didn’t feel like going at all with a promise to myself to stay close to home; I decided to run up to the soccer fields across the street (it’s seven-tenths of a mile each way) and then do however many laps it would take me to total three miles altogether. I thought it would feel comforting to stay close to home.
And it did, but it also felt boring, because running laps is boring and because I wasn’t in the mood for a run. I felt tired and creaky, and as I ran, my frustration over the household problem that had been bothering me was not lessening one bit.
So yesterday wasn’t typical. I didn’t want to go running and I didn’t enjoy it once I went. But I console myself with the fact that I’d feel worse if I hadn’t gone.
Maybe running didn’t have its usual magic powers over me, leaving me feeling transcendent and powerful and serene, but it didn’t make me feel any worse. And I’d met my daily running commitment.
So yes, there are some days when running is not particularly a joy. But just going is easier than making a choice not to go. So the streak continues, and I know the odds are I’ll have a better run today.
What I don’t admit quite so often is that occasionally, there are days when I really don’t want to go, days when I just don’t see how my going running is going to change anything in anyone’s life, even my own. I know from a fitness perspective it wouldn’t really matter if I took a day off now and then. And I know the idea that I’m committed to a daily run isn’t particularly significant in anyone’s mind except my own.
Mostly, it’s a daily habit that I relish and a part of the day I look forward to eagerly. But there are some days when it’s not like that. Yesterday was one of them.
I just didn’t feel like going. For reasons unrelated to running, I was feeling both irritable and overscheduled. A household problem was causing me a great deal of frustration, and although usually running improves my state of mind, this problem was intractable enough that I was certain running couldn’t possibly make me feel any differently where that was concerned. I also felt like I had so much to fit in: church in the morning, then a bunch of errands and a flu shot; then I had promised I’d get to Tim’s baseball game for a few innings; and I wanted to drop in to see my high school friend Courtney, who was in town from North Carolina visiting her local family members. I wanted to spend a little bit of time with my parents, and I wanted to get a head start on the week’s writing assignments, and I wanted to make a well-planned-out and nutritious dinner for my family.
I did not want to fit in a run.
But the streak registry keeps me honest. Having paid my yearly dues is incentive enough not to fall off the wagon; I’m listed on the registry, and it would be so disheartening to have to take the necessary bureaucratic steps to inform the powers that be if I no longer deserved my place on it. The membership fee for the year paid, I might as well get my money’s worth.
Yes, there are some days that running doesn’t feel quite so magnificent as it does most days. Yesterday I countered the fact that I didn’t feel like going at all with a promise to myself to stay close to home; I decided to run up to the soccer fields across the street (it’s seven-tenths of a mile each way) and then do however many laps it would take me to total three miles altogether. I thought it would feel comforting to stay close to home.
And it did, but it also felt boring, because running laps is boring and because I wasn’t in the mood for a run. I felt tired and creaky, and as I ran, my frustration over the household problem that had been bothering me was not lessening one bit.
So yesterday wasn’t typical. I didn’t want to go running and I didn’t enjoy it once I went. But I console myself with the fact that I’d feel worse if I hadn’t gone.
Maybe running didn’t have its usual magic powers over me, leaving me feeling transcendent and powerful and serene, but it didn’t make me feel any worse. And I’d met my daily running commitment.
So yes, there are some days when running is not particularly a joy. But just going is easier than making a choice not to go. So the streak continues, and I know the odds are I’ll have a better run today.
Friday, October 22, 2010
Best-friend blues
It started late yesterday afternoon: in the course of routine everyday roughhousing with Tim, Holly started to cry.
Finding me downstairs, she tearfully described a minor scrape or bump she’d incurred during the tussle; I soothed her with comforting words, hugs and eventually a cup of hot chocolate.
But then there were more meltdowns before bed; when I turned down her request that I read one more chapter of her book aloud (because I’d already been reading aloud to her for a half-hour and couldn’t stay awake over the book anymore), she began to cry again, insisting that I never do anything for her. The usual maternal litany went through my mind: other than prepare three meals a day, make sure you get to school on time, set up all your social engagements and activities, take care of your medical needs, keep the house heated, etc., etc., nothing to help you. Nothing at all.
Instead, I said the most radical thing I allow myself in this situation: “Well, try to imagine what it would be like without me and then maybe you won’t feel like I never do anything for you.”
She cried some more, which puzzled me; my not wanting to read another chapter isn’t the kind of thing that would normally be such a big deal. And then, having settled down enough to put pajamas on and brush teeth, she climbed into bed, pulled up the covers, and confided in me, her hazel eyes swimming in tears: there had been a disagreement during the course of the school day about who was best friends with whom.
I should have known. When Holly breaks down like this, it’s always a best-friend issue, or that’s been the case for the past six months or so, anyway. Who is whose best friend occupies a tremendous amount of her mental energy, and even though the problems have persisted intermittently since well before the end of the last school year, I’m still at a loss for how to handle it. In my own mind, I’m utterly exasperated: from my perspective, it’s clear enough who embodies the better qualities of friendship and who doesn’t, and it seems so easy to me to make choices based on that.
But of course, I’m not an eight-year-old girl. On the other hand, I’m not always that far from being one. I was having friendship issues of my own a few weeks ago. I didn’t dissolve into tears over them; I put my forty years of experience behind my attitude that things would work themselves out, and they did. But forty years is a long time to be able to practice.
It’s tough, and it’s not likely to get much easier for Holly any time soon. She’s not being bullied or ostracized; nor is she bullying or ostracizing, to the best of my knowledge. She’s just struggling to understand the nuances of interpersonal dynamics and human relationships. To which I say to her, join the club.
I wish I could help her more, and maybe with time – or a lot of parenting workshops, which fortunately seem to be in abundance – I’ll learn some strategies to pass on to her. But I’m not likely to pursue any patented approaches too aggressively. In my experience, you learn with experience. She’s just at the beginning of that journey, and I’ll do all I can to help her along. But no matter how you look at it, for most of us it’s a long road.
Finding me downstairs, she tearfully described a minor scrape or bump she’d incurred during the tussle; I soothed her with comforting words, hugs and eventually a cup of hot chocolate.
But then there were more meltdowns before bed; when I turned down her request that I read one more chapter of her book aloud (because I’d already been reading aloud to her for a half-hour and couldn’t stay awake over the book anymore), she began to cry again, insisting that I never do anything for her. The usual maternal litany went through my mind: other than prepare three meals a day, make sure you get to school on time, set up all your social engagements and activities, take care of your medical needs, keep the house heated, etc., etc., nothing to help you. Nothing at all.
Instead, I said the most radical thing I allow myself in this situation: “Well, try to imagine what it would be like without me and then maybe you won’t feel like I never do anything for you.”
She cried some more, which puzzled me; my not wanting to read another chapter isn’t the kind of thing that would normally be such a big deal. And then, having settled down enough to put pajamas on and brush teeth, she climbed into bed, pulled up the covers, and confided in me, her hazel eyes swimming in tears: there had been a disagreement during the course of the school day about who was best friends with whom.
I should have known. When Holly breaks down like this, it’s always a best-friend issue, or that’s been the case for the past six months or so, anyway. Who is whose best friend occupies a tremendous amount of her mental energy, and even though the problems have persisted intermittently since well before the end of the last school year, I’m still at a loss for how to handle it. In my own mind, I’m utterly exasperated: from my perspective, it’s clear enough who embodies the better qualities of friendship and who doesn’t, and it seems so easy to me to make choices based on that.
But of course, I’m not an eight-year-old girl. On the other hand, I’m not always that far from being one. I was having friendship issues of my own a few weeks ago. I didn’t dissolve into tears over them; I put my forty years of experience behind my attitude that things would work themselves out, and they did. But forty years is a long time to be able to practice.
It’s tough, and it’s not likely to get much easier for Holly any time soon. She’s not being bullied or ostracized; nor is she bullying or ostracizing, to the best of my knowledge. She’s just struggling to understand the nuances of interpersonal dynamics and human relationships. To which I say to her, join the club.
I wish I could help her more, and maybe with time – or a lot of parenting workshops, which fortunately seem to be in abundance – I’ll learn some strategies to pass on to her. But I’m not likely to pursue any patented approaches too aggressively. In my experience, you learn with experience. She’s just at the beginning of that journey, and I’ll do all I can to help her along. But no matter how you look at it, for most of us it’s a long road.
Thursday, October 21, 2010
Birthday cake
Late yesterday afternoon, I made a chocolate cake.
For many reasons, that act felt like a luxury. I had worked hard throughout my regular workday to finish a draft of a story so that I would feel justified in not working any more after three o’clock. And the house was empty, which was unusual for that time of day. Rick and Tim were at a baseball practice; Holly was at her pottery class, and since I’d driven her and two friends to the studio, one of the other mothers would drive her home, so I didn’t even need to watch the clock.
With All Things Considered as my soundtrack (and Nina Totenberg warning listeners, just as she did nineteen years ago, that content regarding her story on Clarence Thomas might not be appropriate for all audiences), I melted chocolate, measured flour, greased a cake pan. Atypical for me, who usually rushes to get everything done, I’d remembered to take the butter out of the fridge hours earlier, so it had reached the perfect consistency for creaming with sugar and eggs. I whipped egg whites, all with a somewhat dreamy sense of decadence.
Usually I rush; yesterday I had time, and no distractions. It was a more complicated recipe than I generally use. I bake a lot, but normally if I make a cake it’s a traditional layer cake with soft moist crumbs and creamy frosting. This recipe called for crumbled almond paste and stiffly whipped egg whites that then had to be folded into the butter/sugar/chocolate mixture. I’m not very good at folding batter at all. And I wasn’t sure I’d greased the cake pan sufficiently for when it came time to unmold the finished product.
It didn’t matter. I was immersed in the task at hand and thoroughly content to be doing it. The cake was for my father’s birthday dinner; I would be taking it next door to my parents’ house in another hour or so. The recipe I was using is his favorite, and normally my mother makes it for him, but she was taking care of the rest of the dinner so I’d offered to take on this responsibility.
Two months ago, I didn’t really expect my father to have another birthday. He was recovering from surgery but not very well, and the thought that by mid-fall not only would we be having a birthday dinner but that we’d have to schedule it in between his stints out on the tractor mowing the fields and volunteering at the prison would have seemed utterly improbable. But here I was, glazing the cake and wrapping his present.
Dad shares a birthday with my niece, Hannah, who turned eight yesterday. I hoped that turning eight would be easier on her than the beginning of being seven was. A year ago, she ended her own party with a trip to Children’s Hospital in Washington, D.C., where she was hospitalized for a week with H1N1. She missed out on Halloween, but made a good strong recovery; her birthday celebration this year will include her first sleepover party.
It wasn’t a sure thing that either of yesterday’s celebrants in my family would get to this next birthday, but of course, it never is, for anyone. Yesterday morning when I dropped Holly off at school, I ran into my friend Lisa, who said she’d had dinner the night before with a friend of hers who was mourning her own mother whose birthday it was that day. A year ago, Lisa’s friend’s mother, who was several years younger than my dad, had no reason to think she wouldn’t be around for another birthday, but as we all know, these things happen. Her death was sudden and unanticipated.
Dad’s birthday was a very happy day for all of us. We were glad he was there to celebrate with us; I could easily imagine spending the day under other circumstances. But in fact, I always feel this way on my parents’ birthdays, and my husband’s and children’s too: just glad they’re around for another yearly milestone.
The cake didn’t come out as nice as when my mother makes it. It stuck to the pan a little bit, and I had to reconstruct it somewhat on the cake plate and then slather glaze over the many cracks. But no one complained as they ate it, and I certainly didn’t complain when I made it. Baking a birthday cake yesterday felt like a privilege. I had the time; I had the right ingredients – even a tube of almond paste, which I dug out from the depths of the freezer -- and I had my dad to bake for. It was a happy birthday all around.
For many reasons, that act felt like a luxury. I had worked hard throughout my regular workday to finish a draft of a story so that I would feel justified in not working any more after three o’clock. And the house was empty, which was unusual for that time of day. Rick and Tim were at a baseball practice; Holly was at her pottery class, and since I’d driven her and two friends to the studio, one of the other mothers would drive her home, so I didn’t even need to watch the clock.
With All Things Considered as my soundtrack (and Nina Totenberg warning listeners, just as she did nineteen years ago, that content regarding her story on Clarence Thomas might not be appropriate for all audiences), I melted chocolate, measured flour, greased a cake pan. Atypical for me, who usually rushes to get everything done, I’d remembered to take the butter out of the fridge hours earlier, so it had reached the perfect consistency for creaming with sugar and eggs. I whipped egg whites, all with a somewhat dreamy sense of decadence.
Usually I rush; yesterday I had time, and no distractions. It was a more complicated recipe than I generally use. I bake a lot, but normally if I make a cake it’s a traditional layer cake with soft moist crumbs and creamy frosting. This recipe called for crumbled almond paste and stiffly whipped egg whites that then had to be folded into the butter/sugar/chocolate mixture. I’m not very good at folding batter at all. And I wasn’t sure I’d greased the cake pan sufficiently for when it came time to unmold the finished product.
It didn’t matter. I was immersed in the task at hand and thoroughly content to be doing it. The cake was for my father’s birthday dinner; I would be taking it next door to my parents’ house in another hour or so. The recipe I was using is his favorite, and normally my mother makes it for him, but she was taking care of the rest of the dinner so I’d offered to take on this responsibility.
Two months ago, I didn’t really expect my father to have another birthday. He was recovering from surgery but not very well, and the thought that by mid-fall not only would we be having a birthday dinner but that we’d have to schedule it in between his stints out on the tractor mowing the fields and volunteering at the prison would have seemed utterly improbable. But here I was, glazing the cake and wrapping his present.
Dad shares a birthday with my niece, Hannah, who turned eight yesterday. I hoped that turning eight would be easier on her than the beginning of being seven was. A year ago, she ended her own party with a trip to Children’s Hospital in Washington, D.C., where she was hospitalized for a week with H1N1. She missed out on Halloween, but made a good strong recovery; her birthday celebration this year will include her first sleepover party.
It wasn’t a sure thing that either of yesterday’s celebrants in my family would get to this next birthday, but of course, it never is, for anyone. Yesterday morning when I dropped Holly off at school, I ran into my friend Lisa, who said she’d had dinner the night before with a friend of hers who was mourning her own mother whose birthday it was that day. A year ago, Lisa’s friend’s mother, who was several years younger than my dad, had no reason to think she wouldn’t be around for another birthday, but as we all know, these things happen. Her death was sudden and unanticipated.
Dad’s birthday was a very happy day for all of us. We were glad he was there to celebrate with us; I could easily imagine spending the day under other circumstances. But in fact, I always feel this way on my parents’ birthdays, and my husband’s and children’s too: just glad they’re around for another yearly milestone.
The cake didn’t come out as nice as when my mother makes it. It stuck to the pan a little bit, and I had to reconstruct it somewhat on the cake plate and then slather glaze over the many cracks. But no one complained as they ate it, and I certainly didn’t complain when I made it. Baking a birthday cake yesterday felt like a privilege. I had the time; I had the right ingredients – even a tube of almond paste, which I dug out from the depths of the freezer -- and I had my dad to bake for. It was a happy birthday all around.
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