Things we "GET" to do

Leah came to me the other day and said, "Look at this." She showed me a blank answer on a piece of homework.

Perpetually positive Mr. Olson

She said, "I asked Mr. Olson if I had to do this problem. I didn't think I should have to do it." 

"Well, what did he say?" I asked.

"He said I GET to do this problem, so I HAVE to do it," she sighed.

"No, you GET to!" I laughed.

She groaned.

The power of positive thinking. That is what has kept Mr. Olson teaching elementary school for 34 years.

Thanks Mr. Olson for your kind answer to an interminable question. Thank you for patience when those questions come, the ones you have answered several thousand times during your teaching career.  Thanks for building your students' self-esteem higher than any parent ever could. 

It's a good lesson for all of us. We "get" to do lots of things every day. If we "get" to do them instead of "have" to do them then they have the potential to become great things. If our daily tasks are a privilege to perform, then we perform them with more pride, skill and success. 

I don't know if I will be able to apply this principle to cleaning up dog throw up, or other detestable chores, but there are a thousand other tasks that I "get to do" today by virtue of the fact that I am alive in this world where each day is a gift. 

Mr. Olson has known this secret for lots of years. I am glad he was able to teach it to Leah, Nathan and Sammie, three of my children who GOT to be in his class during their 5th grade year. 

Poptarts for Breakfast

Today my kids had Poptarts for breakfast, and thus I am living true to the Slacker Mom title that I bequeathed upon myself many years ago.

Tuesday Feb. 7 To Do List: Be a Slacker Mom. CHECK. Success comes in many forms.

Explanation if there is one:  I didn't sleep well last night (sadly, not an uncommon thing) and so when the kids were wondering what to eat for breakfast, I was still foggy, groggy and not even upright. But I wasn't  groggy enough not to yell, "Just eat some Poptarts!" when they called upstairs to ask what they should eat. The word Poptarts knocked them flat, and I could hear nothing for a bit; I am sure because they were stunned into silence. Then there was a bit of rummaging around in the pantry, and then some paper rustling, and then a "Pop!" sound from the toaster (thus the "pop" in Poptart--clever).

Then I remembered my scruples. I shouted,  "At least have some milk with them--a whole glass!" And as an afterthought: "Some vitamins, too!"


High and Mighty Mom Mantra 10 years ago: Poptarts are strictly for an after school snack so as not to deprive the body of valuable nutrients before a school day. Having a high carb sugar rush first thing in the morning is not conducive to learning. I do not want my kids to tell their teachers they had Poptarts for breakfast. That looks poorly upon me as a mother. I will not be a white trash Mom. There will be no Poptarts or Frosted Flakes for breakfast and no Hamburger Helper for dinner. 


Back then I hadn't yet succumbed to being a Slacker Mom. I am proud to say, however, that despite the Poptart incident, Hamburger Helper has never taken up space on my pantry shelves. But my life is only half over. Who knows what the next 40 years might reduce me to.

I finally got up to go downstairs. Even Slacker Moms have to redeem themselves sometimes. I figured I had better make some nutritious lunches to counteract the negative affects of the Poptart breakfast.

As I thought about what might be the most healthy option for lunch, I thought about my father. He passed away years ago, but I wondered if he was watching me now, and if he was, I am sure he was laughing to beat the heavenly bands.

After all, he was the one who taught me to eat Cheerios with chunks of cheddar cheese floating around in 2% milk. But we usually only ate it for a bedtime snack.

Snow

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.

Civility

If I wasn't a Mormon I think I'd be a Baptist. Just for the music. OK, and the passionate people. What it really comes down to is I want to have fun at church. Why don't Mormons sing? Myself included. If I was a Baptist I would go to church for one hour. I wouldn't have to skip Sunday School to go home for a Diet Coke!

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

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.

Life in the Book Lane

Today I turned 45 and I got all these books for my birthday. Actually there are a few more not on this stack. Best birthday ever! Now I just need hours and days and weeks and months to get through all of them. Barnes and Noble had a "buy two classics, get one free" deal going on, so we took advantage. They were not expensive to begin with. So happy day. As I an thinking of being a teacher someday, there are so many books and I haven't read, and I am just not feeling prepared! So many books, so little time. At least they make a great centerpiece.

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.