It finally snowed.
Every prediction for show during past two weeks has fallen flat, blown away by dry sunny skies. I used to not want snow at all, preferring to fast forward my life from January 1 to May 1. But then last year I started snowshoeing and things changed for me. I have been waiting for two months for the snow to come. The anticipation was killing me. It finally came on Saturday, but I wonder if there is enough to get out the snow shoes.
For me, snow meant no smog, no icky recycled already breathed air. It meant invigoration and pine trees when Darren and I ventured up Provo Canyon. It meant I could shed all the guilt from not working out in a germ-invested gym where sweaty, hyper people are trying to lose weight that they will gain again next year. Adios crazy gym people, I thought. You're all going to get sick touching all those handlebars. You're going to wear yourselves out and be bored in a month. But I am going up to the mountains.
I'm such a snot. But before we got a little snow, I was seriously thinking that I was going to have to join the ranks of gym-going people, eat my own words, and hate every minute of it. Guilt to exercise nags whether you're going to the gym or the mountains. So I might as well just exercise.
Let more of the white stuff come so I don't have to do that. At least the gym people are getting healthy while I am sitting around waiting for a snowy day.
Monday, January 23, 2012
Monday, January 16, 2012
Civility
I particularly like this song from the Calvary Baptist Church in Salt Lake City. On Martin Luther Kind Day I like to listen to this kind of music. In fact, one of my radio stations on Pandora is set to contemporary gospel music.
My family and I saw a great exhibit, This Light of Ours, at the new Leonardo Museum in Salt Lake City. We walked around looking at hundreds of pictures of the civil rights movement. The college-aged student and my high schooler were rapt with interest. My 13-year old and 10-year old were definitely not rapt, but showed a heartening amount of interest. I will take what I can get!
This exhibit is outstanding. The photographs are stunning. I loved listening to Pastor France Davis of the Calvary Baptist Church speak (on video) about the civil rights movement in Salt Lake City. What we learn in school is about the movement based primarily in the South. I learned that all states were influenced and involved in some way. It was fascinating to see it at the local level. Utah was intimately involved. Utah? Yes, Utah.
As some of you know, I have been spending some time in the public schools. One day I listened to a group of 8th graders talk about racism. They discussed how it is alive and well in the halls at their school. They talked about the assumptions they make about people because of their race or where they're from. One Asian boy said, "Yeah, everyone thinks I'm so smart because I'm Asian. But I'm just normal." Others spoke about how it is easy to make racial jokes. About how fun that is. And how the people who are the brunt of the jokes are often laughing as well. That is what this group of mostly white kids claimed.
"Dude, I don't mean to tell those jokes, but they just come out," one of them said.
I wanted to chime and say that adults are just as guilty of racial assumptions and sometimes actions, maybe even more. Adults would like to say we are not overtly racist, but many of us are passively racist. We don't engage in racist activities, but we do nothing to help stop racism. We rarely discuss it. We don't like to admit that it exists. But I didn't say anything because I was a visitor and I just wanted to listen.
I was impressed with these 8th graders. They were informed. They were aware of their tendencies to make judgments about people.
Here is a poem that we read in my multicultural education class. I will never forget it.
When I was born, I was black
When I grew up, I was black
When I go out in the sun, I am black.
But you,
When you were born you were pink
When you grow up you are white
When you are sick you are green
When you go in the sun, you are red
When you get a cold, you are blue
And when you die, you are purple.
And you call me colored.
--Anonymous
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
My Life in Laundry
If there were an "L" word, laundry would be it.
Laundry has consumed my life since my daughter was born in 1991. I was hopeful when she moved out several years ago after 18 years of washing her clothes that my laundry "load" would be lightened. Perhaps there would only be 10 loads a week instead of 12. And sometimes I do feel like there is less laundry. But sometimes it means that I find her clothes around the house when she has spent time here and that I take care of them and try to get them back to her. Practically I should "wash" my hands of her clothing. She is 20 after all. Not much about being a Mom is practical, however. Sometimes I take her stuff to the dry cleaner's, too. Bad mommy.
And yes, one less person in the house should theoretically mean less laundry. For a while now I have been trying to figure out why that really isn't true. I think I have an idea. Even though one person moves out, the remaining children here go through growth spurts (ie 13 year old boy) and their clothes get bigger. Dumb? If two kids go up a size then that increases the amount of laundry, right? Enough to make up the loss of one less person? Maybe not. I am delusional as I sort sort wash wash dry dry fold fold and stare hopelessly at the basket earmarked solely for unmatched socks.
Babies and toddlers generate tons of laundry, but their clothes are the size of washcloths compared to my teenage son's sports jerseys.(And believe it or not, they smell better.) And now that my husband has taken up basketball, biking, hiking and canyoneering, I now have a new genre of laundry--"adventure clothes."
In my teenage years, I would go through my closet in the morning and throw tantrums that there was "nothing to wear." Then I would throw my discarded clothes on to the floor where they would end up in the wash. Today, my kids don't have meltdowns about clothes (thank the Lord), but they still throw perfectly clean clothes on the floor if they decide not to wear them. When I don't feel like smelling them to find out if they are clean (or just don't have the stomach for it) I just wash everything--everything.
Wash wash wash. Fold fold fold. Like a Chinese laundry.
"Have the kids do their own laundry," my husband advises. What that means is that they let it accumulate for two weeks (14 pairs of underwear equals 14 days of not doing laundry!) and then they dump a truckload of clothes on the laundry room floor when I am also doing laundry. They put in a load and then go off for a "day date" to Jump on It and return five hours later with more sweaty clothes. In the meantime I have done multiple yoga moves to get over the pile to the washing machine to keep it all going.
Wash wash wash. Fold fold fold.
If I discover that I am out of Downey (the staff of my laundry life and the only thing about laundry that doesn't completely defeat me) I may lose it for a while thinking that I have to use a crummy dryer sheet. Running out of Downy is like running out of Diet Coke or clean underwear, if you must know.
Don't get me going on the sock basket that never has a single match. It sits on the floor by the dryer with 100 screaming occupants shouting, "match me, match me!"
"It's time for family home evening, kids," I said one Monday night. "We're all going to match socks!" Fun fun fun, match match match. Lame lame lame.
Laundry has consumed my life since my daughter was born in 1991. I was hopeful when she moved out several years ago after 18 years of washing her clothes that my laundry "load" would be lightened. Perhaps there would only be 10 loads a week instead of 12. And sometimes I do feel like there is less laundry. But sometimes it means that I find her clothes around the house when she has spent time here and that I take care of them and try to get them back to her. Practically I should "wash" my hands of her clothing. She is 20 after all. Not much about being a Mom is practical, however. Sometimes I take her stuff to the dry cleaner's, too. Bad mommy.
And yes, one less person in the house should theoretically mean less laundry. For a while now I have been trying to figure out why that really isn't true. I think I have an idea. Even though one person moves out, the remaining children here go through growth spurts (ie 13 year old boy) and their clothes get bigger. Dumb? If two kids go up a size then that increases the amount of laundry, right? Enough to make up the loss of one less person? Maybe not. I am delusional as I sort sort wash wash dry dry fold fold and stare hopelessly at the basket earmarked solely for unmatched socks.
Babies and toddlers generate tons of laundry, but their clothes are the size of washcloths compared to my teenage son's sports jerseys.(And believe it or not, they smell better.) And now that my husband has taken up basketball, biking, hiking and canyoneering, I now have a new genre of laundry--"adventure clothes."
In my teenage years, I would go through my closet in the morning and throw tantrums that there was "nothing to wear." Then I would throw my discarded clothes on to the floor where they would end up in the wash. Today, my kids don't have meltdowns about clothes (thank the Lord), but they still throw perfectly clean clothes on the floor if they decide not to wear them. When I don't feel like smelling them to find out if they are clean (or just don't have the stomach for it) I just wash everything--everything.
Wash wash wash. Fold fold fold. Like a Chinese laundry.
"Have the kids do their own laundry," my husband advises. What that means is that they let it accumulate for two weeks (14 pairs of underwear equals 14 days of not doing laundry!) and then they dump a truckload of clothes on the laundry room floor when I am also doing laundry. They put in a load and then go off for a "day date" to Jump on It and return five hours later with more sweaty clothes. In the meantime I have done multiple yoga moves to get over the pile to the washing machine to keep it all going.
Wash wash wash. Fold fold fold.
If I discover that I am out of Downey (the staff of my laundry life and the only thing about laundry that doesn't completely defeat me) I may lose it for a while thinking that I have to use a crummy dryer sheet. Running out of Downy is like running out of Diet Coke or clean underwear, if you must know.
Don't get me going on the sock basket that never has a single match. It sits on the floor by the dryer with 100 screaming occupants shouting, "match me, match me!"
"It's time for family home evening, kids," I said one Monday night. "We're all going to match socks!" Fun fun fun, match match match. Lame lame lame.
Sunday, October 16, 2011
Life in the Book Lane
Monday, October 3, 2011
Life in the School Lane
Wow. My head hurts. It is not used to the information that is being crammed between is flabby, squishy walls. It is used to being filled with light, airy subjects like books, family, PTA and how to get out of making dinner and the second hour of church. Or whether to order the pork salad OR the burrito at Cafe Rio. Not things like common core, scaffolding a lesson, unpacking a standard, objectives, rubrics and accountability. Sheesh.
My brain is stretched beyond capacity. So when more data tries to find a spot it strains the walls and causes inflammation and discomfort that can otherwise be called a headache. In other words, I am having a medical reaction caused by a foreign ( and how!) intellectualism. Like a pebble in a shoe. A similar analogy is the class sizes in today's English classes. The brain is like a classroom that can't get bigger. Students have to adapt by sitting at tables instead of desks, and it is often uncomfortable.
Here is the conversation I have been having with my brain:
Brain: (with conviction) This stuff is hard to absorb. If nothing else, there's too much of it. Get rid of some of it. You are not sleeping, and when you don't sleep then I don't sleep, remember? You do remember those REM patterns that I HAVE to have to function? I cannot process all this!!
Me: (sheepishly) I know. I can't get rid of all this stuff. If I get rid of it, I will not pass this class. I will do all I can to sleep better so you can perform better.
Brain: (with resignation) OK, just this once I will try to stretch a bit more. But I can't make any promises. I get tired, too.
Me. (with gratitude) Thanks for trying as hard as you can. When we are through with this tough part you get to do some fun stuff like watch a movie (you like that, right?) stare off into space, look at pretty leaves and sleep more.
Then under my breath I say, " Until the next round of info comes barreling down the track."
Brain: Goody!
And so it goes.
A side note: Thirty five to forty kids in a class is standard not the exception. I kept hoping to see some smaller class sizes when I switched from high school to junior high last week, but no, they are packed in like sardines, too.
An observation: Some teachers measure the stacks of papers to grade by inches and feet. No kidding. But today a teacher from Orem High came to our class to teach us his technique for handling the paper shuffle and I will definitely adopt his method. There is hope.
This class ends in two weeks. I can't believe how fast and furious it has been.
My brain is stretched beyond capacity. So when more data tries to find a spot it strains the walls and causes inflammation and discomfort that can otherwise be called a headache. In other words, I am having a medical reaction caused by a foreign ( and how!) intellectualism. Like a pebble in a shoe. A similar analogy is the class sizes in today's English classes. The brain is like a classroom that can't get bigger. Students have to adapt by sitting at tables instead of desks, and it is often uncomfortable.
Here is the conversation I have been having with my brain:
Brain: (with conviction) This stuff is hard to absorb. If nothing else, there's too much of it. Get rid of some of it. You are not sleeping, and when you don't sleep then I don't sleep, remember? You do remember those REM patterns that I HAVE to have to function? I cannot process all this!!
Me: (sheepishly) I know. I can't get rid of all this stuff. If I get rid of it, I will not pass this class. I will do all I can to sleep better so you can perform better.
Brain: (with resignation) OK, just this once I will try to stretch a bit more. But I can't make any promises. I get tired, too.
Me. (with gratitude) Thanks for trying as hard as you can. When we are through with this tough part you get to do some fun stuff like watch a movie (you like that, right?) stare off into space, look at pretty leaves and sleep more.
Then under my breath I say, " Until the next round of info comes barreling down the track."
Brain: Goody!
And so it goes.
A side note: Thirty five to forty kids in a class is standard not the exception. I kept hoping to see some smaller class sizes when I switched from high school to junior high last week, but no, they are packed in like sardines, too.
An observation: Some teachers measure the stacks of papers to grade by inches and feet. No kidding. But today a teacher from Orem High came to our class to teach us his technique for handling the paper shuffle and I will definitely adopt his method. There is hope.
This class ends in two weeks. I can't believe how fast and furious it has been.
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
Mama Goes Back to School Part 3
Here is my report of my first day in high school.
Here are the words that represent my experience: acne, BO, zits, yelling across the room, flirting, hiding, reading, texting, blushing, laughing, kicking (desks) and tapping (pencils). Apparently the tapper thought he was in band class.
Many times I heard, "What are we supposed to do?"
And the most alarming: 39 kids in one class. 39 kids that don't really want to be there. English is one of those classes that you HAVE to take. So there is no choice. ALL of the 39 were there, just not really there. If they were there mentally, they were faking it.
There are not enough desks. Three students were sitting at a table in the corner. One had her flip flops off and was smacking gum loudly. Her "neighbor" was voraciously reading "The Hunger Games." At least she was reading. That's a good sign.
Here are words that I said during both classes of 39 students: stop touching each other, don't kick his desk, don't throw the gum wrapper, and SHHHHHHHH about a hundred times. I sounded like a deflating tire. Do you need a piece of paper. Maybe if you like her so much you should ask her to Homecoming. (This just resulted in more blushing and laughing.)
I walked around and stood by students who were talking and laughing. I got more exercise than I've had in a week. When I stood by them, they talked and laughed less, but only until I moved away.
One girl came in and just laid her head on her desk. She got out a piece of paper and wrote a bit, then stopped. Then she laid her head down again. You could tell she had "stuff" going on. She was one of the saddest girls I've ever seen.
I wonder if I'll ever be able to figure out these kids' "stuff." And if so, I hope I can help somehow.
Here are the words that represent my experience: acne, BO, zits, yelling across the room, flirting, hiding, reading, texting, blushing, laughing, kicking (desks) and tapping (pencils). Apparently the tapper thought he was in band class.
Many times I heard, "What are we supposed to do?"
And the most alarming: 39 kids in one class. 39 kids that don't really want to be there. English is one of those classes that you HAVE to take. So there is no choice. ALL of the 39 were there, just not really there. If they were there mentally, they were faking it.
There are not enough desks. Three students were sitting at a table in the corner. One had her flip flops off and was smacking gum loudly. Her "neighbor" was voraciously reading "The Hunger Games." At least she was reading. That's a good sign.
Here are words that I said during both classes of 39 students: stop touching each other, don't kick his desk, don't throw the gum wrapper, and SHHHHHHHH about a hundred times. I sounded like a deflating tire. Do you need a piece of paper. Maybe if you like her so much you should ask her to Homecoming. (This just resulted in more blushing and laughing.)
I walked around and stood by students who were talking and laughing. I got more exercise than I've had in a week. When I stood by them, they talked and laughed less, but only until I moved away.
One girl came in and just laid her head on her desk. She got out a piece of paper and wrote a bit, then stopped. Then she laid her head down again. You could tell she had "stuff" going on. She was one of the saddest girls I've ever seen.
I wonder if I'll ever be able to figure out these kids' "stuff." And if so, I hope I can help somehow.
Sunday, September 4, 2011
Mama Goes Back to School--Part 2
Well, I'm glad there is a Part 2 to this ridiculous undertaking. It almost ended in Part 1. But here I am back in the saddle after being bucked off the horse several times this week.
Yee-haw?
I almost quit my class Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday--really and truly Thursday. It was all just too much. I had sat in class for 20 hours. Twenty hours in the same class. I did homework for this class for probably 16 hours. Instead of asking my kids how much homework they had each afternoon, they asked me. "Mom, do you have a lot of homework?" I just looked at them sort of glassy-eyed. "Yeah, I said, see you in a couple of hours. Or maybe tomorrow morning. Have a nice life."
On Thursday I had hit a low point. My brain hurt, literally hurt. I think it probably hurt as much as a migraine, although I never have had one. But that was what I imagined it might feel like. I could tell it wasn't just a headache, it was a a message from my brain. The message said, "I am overloaded, my message box is full. Stop stretching me." I told it, "I know, I am sorry. Bear with me for one more day and then you can have three days off." It was kind. Thank you, brain.
That was just the physical part.There were also the emotions that gurgled and bubbled over like a Yellowstone Park hot pot multiple times during the week. The thing is, you can talk to your brain and reason with it about hanging in there. You can persuade it to let a little more information in. But you can't talk to your emotions and tell them to STOP IT, THAT THEY ARE RUINING YOUR LIFE! Well you can, but they don't listen. They do what they want. The are unpredictable and embarrassing. They are fickle. They make you look and feel older than you are, something I definitely didn't want in this class of 20 somethings.
And then there's the sleep issue that I can barely talk about sometimes. I hadn't slept well Wednesday night. My brain hurt, I kept getting teary. I was beyond tired. What was I going to do? Was this how I would feel for the next two years? Shoot me now, I thought.
"You'll get used to homework," my Mom told me. "You'll be able to do to do it faster in a while." "If you quit, I'll kick your butt," my sister told me. "You're going to be just fine," one of the professors told me. She had been a non-traditional student like me. She said I'd be able to find part time work and that I wouldn't have to work 10-hour days like full time teachers. That there were jobs out there. I began to smile a bit. This kept the tears from flowing. My brain stopped cramping so much. Bless you, Professor Rawlings. Bless you Mom and Lisa.
Friday at noon arrived. The sun came out a bit. I would have some time to pull it together.
Friday night I watched "Princess Bride" with Nathan. I totally related to Miracle Max when he said, "He's not dead, he's just mostly dead." Yup. That's how I feel. Then came Saturday with its mundane housecleaning and grocery shopping. We went to the Storytelling Festival and laughed and laughed and that made me feel better. Today was relaxing. Tomorrow is a free day. I am well again.
Tuesday I go to good old Orem High just down the street to spend three weeks with Mr. Johnson in his 10th grade English class. I will try not to let anyone know I am Sammie's Mom so as not to embarrass her. I may have the neighborhood kids down the street in my class. They already think I'm strange, so oh well. I am told I will do anything from teach the class to make copies. I do have to do at least one lesson while I am in his class.
I hope I like him and he likes me. I hope it is a good experience.
Baptism by fire.
Yee-haw?
I almost quit my class Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday--really and truly Thursday. It was all just too much. I had sat in class for 20 hours. Twenty hours in the same class. I did homework for this class for probably 16 hours. Instead of asking my kids how much homework they had each afternoon, they asked me. "Mom, do you have a lot of homework?" I just looked at them sort of glassy-eyed. "Yeah, I said, see you in a couple of hours. Or maybe tomorrow morning. Have a nice life."
On Thursday I had hit a low point. My brain hurt, literally hurt. I think it probably hurt as much as a migraine, although I never have had one. But that was what I imagined it might feel like. I could tell it wasn't just a headache, it was a a message from my brain. The message said, "I am overloaded, my message box is full. Stop stretching me." I told it, "I know, I am sorry. Bear with me for one more day and then you can have three days off." It was kind. Thank you, brain.
That was just the physical part.There were also the emotions that gurgled and bubbled over like a Yellowstone Park hot pot multiple times during the week. The thing is, you can talk to your brain and reason with it about hanging in there. You can persuade it to let a little more information in. But you can't talk to your emotions and tell them to STOP IT, THAT THEY ARE RUINING YOUR LIFE! Well you can, but they don't listen. They do what they want. The are unpredictable and embarrassing. They are fickle. They make you look and feel older than you are, something I definitely didn't want in this class of 20 somethings.
And then there's the sleep issue that I can barely talk about sometimes. I hadn't slept well Wednesday night. My brain hurt, I kept getting teary. I was beyond tired. What was I going to do? Was this how I would feel for the next two years? Shoot me now, I thought.
"You'll get used to homework," my Mom told me. "You'll be able to do to do it faster in a while." "If you quit, I'll kick your butt," my sister told me. "You're going to be just fine," one of the professors told me. She had been a non-traditional student like me. She said I'd be able to find part time work and that I wouldn't have to work 10-hour days like full time teachers. That there were jobs out there. I began to smile a bit. This kept the tears from flowing. My brain stopped cramping so much. Bless you, Professor Rawlings. Bless you Mom and Lisa.
Friday at noon arrived. The sun came out a bit. I would have some time to pull it together.
Friday night I watched "Princess Bride" with Nathan. I totally related to Miracle Max when he said, "He's not dead, he's just mostly dead." Yup. That's how I feel. Then came Saturday with its mundane housecleaning and grocery shopping. We went to the Storytelling Festival and laughed and laughed and that made me feel better. Today was relaxing. Tomorrow is a free day. I am well again.
Tuesday I go to good old Orem High just down the street to spend three weeks with Mr. Johnson in his 10th grade English class. I will try not to let anyone know I am Sammie's Mom so as not to embarrass her. I may have the neighborhood kids down the street in my class. They already think I'm strange, so oh well. I am told I will do anything from teach the class to make copies. I do have to do at least one lesson while I am in his class.
I hope I like him and he likes me. I hope it is a good experience.
Baptism by fire.
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