Jennifer's Super-Fantastic Old-Time Blog-O-Rama

Daylight Saving

2012-03-13T20:01:00.002-07:00

Here, even here,

we wake to moonlit wonder,

a round full eye

gazing strong-soft

over a winter white dawn.

Catch it now,

for in a moment,

it will slip away

and the sun will summon

the spring green blades to rise.

Dig hard, boys,

in the after-supper sun

before the dusk steals in

to claim the yard.

It is good work you do,

in this clear evening light.

Overheard

2012-03-13T06:36:00.002-07:00

I: Let's go have a Trojan war pillow fight downstairs!!!
A: No. I don't want to mess up my hair.

[Can you tell we're deeply immersed in ancient Greece these days???]

SWBAT

2012-03-08T14:50:00.001-08:00

This Week's Objectives:

SWBAT complete a subtraction problem without first breaking into hysterical tears and/or declaring the entire enterprise to be "impossible."
SWBAT construct a Greek warship out of Legos and maintain his composure when his little brother accidentally kicks it to pieces.
SWBAT finish construction of the scale replica of the Aegan sea in the side yard, utilizing shovels, sticks, lots of water, and lots of mud, and then assist in the clean-up of said Aegan sea detritus off of the driveway .
SWBAT read two chapters of her book, out loud, very loudly, before leaving the library.
SWBAT learn how to properly operate the lemonade dispenser at family night dinner, without a)filling his cup so full he has to stand in front of the very long line and slurp some out, b) accidentally pitching an entire cup on the floor, right in front of the dispenser, or c) knocking her cup of lemonade over on the table as soon as she sits down.
SWBAT ~~go on a long walk in the woods~~ get sidetracked by a magical snow melt stream and get very muddy and wet while honing his/her ship and dam-building skills.
SWBAT be able to discern the different processes involved in making snakes vs. balls out of playdough.
SWBAT use paint to express him/herself. Preferably on paper.
SWBAT listen carefully to a re-telling of Swiss Family Robinson every night at dinnertime and then be motivated to go and live on an uninhabited island and raise buffalo and domesticate jackals and build houses in the trees.
SWBAT listen to the echoes of her own laughter as she stands in the wide-mouthed amphitheater of First Canyon.
SWBAT demonstrate courage and bravery as he offers to climb up to where his mother is stuck in First Canyon and get her down.
SWBAT not howl in terror as he is practically bowled over by a friendly, yet over-enthusiastic and unfamiliar dog.
SWBAT get through an entire trip to the grocery store, without having to go to the potty.
SWBAT shake hands with people he does not know on Sunday morning.
SWBAT follow commands perfectly and sweetly.
SWBAT be brilliant and insightful.
SWBAT listen carefully, obey quickly, and generally excel in all areas of study.
SWBAT experience and express joy, awe, and wonder.

Evaluation:

Students accomplished some objectives. Others are still in process.

Something Worth Reading (and Eating!) #3: How To Make an Apple Pie and See the World

2012-03-02T20:17:00.001-08:00

We are trying a new homeschooling experiment in our house. It's based on the Five in a Row curriculum, which, very simply, requires that you read the same book with your child for five days in a row, and then do a different activity each day, based on that book. So far, my opinion of the curriculum itself is mixed. Some of the ideas the authors suggest seem great, others seem a bit weak. But generally speaking, I really like the idea of reading the same book every day for a week and using it as a jumping off point for different learning activities and I've been using some of the curriculum's suggestions, and making up some of my own. This book, How to Make an Apple Pie and See the World by Marjorie Priceman was the first one we studied this way. The book follows a girl who decides to make an apple pie, and, finding her local market closed, travels all over the world gathering ingredients for her pie. She gathers wheat in Italy, a chicken (for eggs) in France, cinnamon in Sri Lanka, a cow (for milk) in England, sugar in Jamaica, and apples in Vermont.
So, as part of our studying this book, I decided to try to cook one dinner from each of the countries the girl visits. Now, I'm only reporting on this wildly optimistic experiment, because, unlike pretty much most of my other wildly optimistic experiments, this one actually, finally, worked. This was quite a lot of fun. My original idea was to cook all of the dinners during the week we were reading the book, but for a lot of reasons, that didn't happen. I got most of them done, but got stuck just before getting to Vermont and, of course, making an apple pie. For weeks now, the kids have been asking when we were going to go to Vermont. But we finally made it.

So here are our "seeing the world" menus:

Day 1: Italy
Eggplant Parmesan
Spaghetti
Italian Bread
Salad
Dinner Music: CD of Italian Opera music

Day 2: France (This happened to also be Valentine's Day)
Coq au Vin
Mashed Potatoes
Steamed Asparagus
Chocolate Cake with Whipped Cream Frosting
Dinner Music: Edith Piaf radio on Pandora

Day 3: Sri Lanka
Tofu stir fry with Curried Coconut sauce
Rice
Naan bread
Dinner Music: Bollywood radio

[OK, this was the hardest one, and my goal was to make something Indian, but I actually have no idea what I'm doing when it comes to south Asian cuisine, and in retrospect, I think this turned out to be more Taiwanese than Indian, but at least I think I got it in the right hemisphere. Plus, I used coconut milk, which I thought was very adventurous of me, Plus, I made naan from scratch. I think I get a little credit for that.]

Day 4: England
Fish and Chips
Peas
Dinner Music: Started out with a mix of Sting, Elton John and the Beatles and then moved into more of a British Isles folk mix.
[The fish selection in this town's grocery stores is dreadful. Let's just say we all enjoyed the chips and peas and are not going to attempt the fish again until we live somewhere closer to the actual water.]

Day 5: Jamaica
Grilled Jamaican Jerk Pork Tenderloin
Mashed Citrus Sweet Potatoes
Cuban Black Beans
Dinner Music: Bob Marley radio, yeah mon!

Day 6: Vermont
Vermont Cheddar Fondue
Broccoli/Asparagus/Potatoes/Bread/Ham
Apple Pie with, of course, Ben and Jerry's Ice Cream
Dinner Music: Appalachian folk
[I know that fondue is not really Vermont-specific, but cheese is! Plus, don't the Von Trap children live there now? And they're from Austria, which is kind of close to Switzerland. Relatively speaking, anyway.]

In Like a...Three-Year-Old?

2012-03-01T19:18:00.002-08:00

In New Mexico, you know when spring is just around the corner because the wind starts blowing. And it blows, and blows, and blows, until you feel the grit in your teeth and at the line where your hair meets your forehead, and your eyes feel dry and scratchy. The wind rattles the windows and scours the swamp cooler on the roof . It blows like a woman with an endless amount of energy and something she thinks she needs to prove, always in your face, always showing up, always rushing around like someone possessed by a demon of guilt. Or perhaps its more like a nagging, whining child, who repeats the same phrase over and over and over again with only slight variations on the theme: "Can I mom? Can I? Can I? Can I? Can I? Can I? Can I? Can I please? Please, can I? Please? Please? Please? Can I please, mom? Mom? Mom? Mom?" And you'd give in, you really would, let it have whatever it wanted, if only it would just stop. Yes, have the lollipop. Watch the TV. Throw your toys on the floor. Color on the walls. Go outside. Stay inside. Do WHATEVER YOU WANT, JUST STOP!!! But even when you surrender to the wind, when you bow your head, close your eyes, refuse to lick your lips and wear chap stick outside, and accept defeat, even then, the wind won't stop. Not even for a second. Oh, it may toy with you for a while, leaning back to gather strength, tricking you into thinking that it's actually going to take a break, but then it rushes forward again, waving its arms and shaking its head like the boogy man.

Hello March. It's been a while.

A Lesson Learned

2012-02-24T20:25:00.003-08:00

After listening to the story of Ulysses and the Cyclops on a CD of Mary Pope Osborne's version of The Oddessey in the car today, I. pipes up from the back seat with this comment: "Thing is, it's not a good idea to eat your guests."

Downton Abbey: The Good, the Bad, the Beautiful and the Slightly-Less Beautiful

2012-02-21T19:39:00.000-08:00

This past Sunday, PBS aired the second season finale of the hit series Downton Abbey, a British import that collected quite a bit of praise on both sides of the pond, and more American viewers than anyone originally expected (or at least more than anyone at PBS claimed to expect). Now, I'm not usually one to jump on a bandwagon, generally figuring that any piece of pop culture that "everyone" thinks is wonderful is generally apt to be pretty useless. But I'm not a hipster either, whose rule of life is to abandon any band or other pop culture artifact as completely uncool as soon as his or her friends get wind of it (If you're interested, here's a link to an article explaining a study done by sociologists at Harvard giving scientific credibility to this definition of hipster-ness.) So, when I heard people talking about season one of Downton Abbey, I wanted to give it a try. Besides, British costume drama? Yes please!

I caught up on season one by DVD last fall, and thoroughly enjoyed it and was looking forward to season two, which began this January. I can't speak with authority as to whether or not this show gives an authentic view of life in WWI England, how much it is or is not like its similarly popular BBC predecessor, Upstairs, Downstairs (to which it is inevitably compared), nor can I really answer any of the critics who claim that the show is nothing more than a classy soap opera with lovely sets and costumes and refined British accents. I just really, really enjoyed it. Entering into Downton's world was a little bit like entering the world of Harry Potter for me -- just exotic enough to be really enticing and exciting, but familiar enough to not seem completely out of the bounds of the reasonable. On just the very basic level, I found it to be very entertaining. There were a lot of interweaving plot twists that were engrossing and believable (with just a few clunkers) and I, along with everyone else in the country, fell in love with the Dowager Countess, Lady Violet and her impeccably-delivered one-liners. And of course, it was a beautiful show to watch -- all those soaring ceilings and elaborate dinners and pristine army uniforms and rustling silks, velvets and satins!

On reflection, however, there are two elements of the story itself that, in my mind, helped the show rise above simple soapy dramatics to something a little bit more important. The first one was the characters themselves. It is difficult to create characters who are more than just stereotypes, caricatures of real people, but who are truly "round". Julian Fellowes, the writer of Downton Abbey, achieved not just two or four real characters, but more than eighteen, all with their own distinct personalities, their own moments of brilliance and weakness. Some of them were meant to be "heroes," others "villains," but none of the good guys were totally good, and none of the bad guys were totally bad. (OK, I may have to take that back, there may be one or two bad guys who are just completely despicable, but for the most part, I stand by my statement.) I liked Downton because the story was populated by people who really are good, but they aren't sappy, one-dimensional good. They are deeply flawed, many of them, and make some terrible decisions, but ultimately decisions for which they are willing to take responsibility. They are good at a cost to themselves. They are noble even though being noble means bringing pain and suffering on themselves and their families. And they are good in a way that doesn't make you want to cringe, like you've eaten too much sugar, but good in a way that is compelling and beautiful and delicious.

And that brings me to the second part of the story that I really appreciated: it would have been easy to make this a story about class warfare, about upstairs vs. downstairs, with the heroes being the long-suffering servants and the villains being the out-of-touch aristocracy. But, as much as it could have been, I really don't think this was a story about class warfare at all. What I continued to find interesting was that the servants who were least content to be servants, who grumbled and were constantly interested in "bettering themselves" were not portrayed favorably at all. Likewise, those of the gentry, the wealthy employers who treated the servants as no more than, well, servants, were also portrayed as less than desirable. What makes Lord Grantham and his family so admirable, in the end, is the way they accept the service of their staff graciously. Ultimately, they stake their own reputations on their belief in the honesty of their servants, rather than leaving them high and dry when crisis comes their way. There was one remarkable scene, early on in season one, when Matthew Crawley, a middle-class lawyer who had been newly-identified as the heir of Downton, was complaining about having to employ a valet. He had no desire to be helped to dress as though he were a child and thought the profession of valet a ridiculous one for a "grown man." Lord Grantham's response to his comment was to point out that employing such people was now part of his responsibilities as Lord of a Manor, not because he somehow deserved them, but because it was his duty to provide for them an opportunity to do the jobs that they had trained for and actually felt fulfillment in doing. The servants at Downton feel at sense of pride in and loyalty to the Great House that to our modern sensibilities seems a bit ridiculous. Aren't they, after all, just a cook, a housemaid, a butler, a footman, doing jobs for privileged people that could easily be taught to do them for themselves? And yet, the idea of thinking of the housekeeper, Mrs. Hughes or Mr. Carson, the butler as picked on or under privileged, or anything but truly noble themselves is ridiculous.

In the end, Lord Grantham sees himself as a steward, of not only a house and a title, but also of all the people who come under his care, whether they be farmers on his land or servants in his house. They serve him, not because he needs to be served, but because he understands that they need to serve. And, (and now I may be pushing the point a bit, but maybe just a bit), this is where I picked up a tiny little life lesson: It might be properly said that the same is true of our relationship to God. It's not that God needs us to serve him, any more than Lord Grantham needs Mr. Bates to tie his shoes or fasten his cuff links. But he knows that we need to be able to serve, in order to be the people he made us to be. And it's not that service is always a joy. I mean, who likes emptying chamber pots or washing up endless piles of other people's dishes? But neither is it always a painful struggle either. Sometimes he calls on us for heroic deeds (like smuggling a dead body out of a room in the middle of the night) and sometimes the tasks are as mundane as lighting a fire or washing a car. But there really is a genuine kind of joy and satisfaction that comes from serving a master who knows that his primary job is taking good care of you, who sees you not just as a servant, but as a real person, a friend even, and who is willing to sacrifice his very self for your well-being.

So yes, I did like Downton Abbey. I'm probably not going to buy this T-shirt, but it is very, very tempting. As if I needed any more evidence that I am truly not a hipster.

God's Grandeur (or, The Backyard, Take 2: This Time in White)

2012-02-15T19:35:00.000-08:00

[I know, lots of posts of pictures these days. I seem to be out of words for the moment, but that doens't mean that the world is standing still, waiting for me to wake up. Quite the contrary. The poem by Hopkins came to mind after a ramble in the canyon this afternoon.]

God's Grandeur

by Gerard Manly Hopkins

THE WORLD is charged with the grandeur of God.

It will flame out, like shining from shook foil;

It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil

Crushed. Why do men then now not reck his rod?

Generations have trod, have trod, have trod;

And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil;

And wears man’s smudge and shares man’s smell: the soil

Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod.

And for all this, nature is never spent;

There lives the dearest freshness deep down things;

And though the last lights off the black West went

Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs—

Because the Holy Ghost over the bent

World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings.

Something Worth Reading #2: The Poppy books by Avi

2012-02-15T14:17:00.000-08:00

We were in a chapter book lull, having exhausted the Laura Ingalls Wilder books and all of the Narnia books that I wanted to read for the time being, and I asked a third-grade-teacher friend for suggestions. He recommended the Poppy books, by the one-named writer Avi (side note: How do you get to be a one-named person? I somehow feel that, while he may be a Newberry-award-winning author, "Avi" isn't nearly as much of a household name as, say, "Reba" or "Prince" or "Madonna". So how does this work?) These books turned out to be just right for I. and A. They love stories about animals, and these books have a great combination of fun story lines and interesting characters. Their favorite, by far, is not the deer mouse who is the main character of the books, but her friend, Ereth, a foul-tempered, salt-addicted porcupine with a penchant for swearing, in his own, porcupine-like way. He says things like, "What the bee's butt are you doing here, fur ball?" and "Well blow your nose and fill a bucket!" In Poppy, the main character goes up against an owl named Mr. Ocax, an insidious tyrant who has convinced the mice in the area that he is their protector, but who is really a bully and is himself deeply afraid. The book inspired some good conversations about the way to deal with bullies, as well as some reflections on what it means to be really brave. We are part-way through the sequel, Poppy and Rye, which we are finding equally enjoyable.

Snow Day Sabbath

2012-02-15T13:50:00.000-08:00

Here's a great thing about homeschooling: when your husband has worked seven long days in a row (and preached twice on Sunday), you can all take the eighth day as a Sabbath and go up into the mountains for a snow day. Even on a Monday.

The Back Yard and What We Found There

2012-02-10T18:17:00.000-08:00

We are Not in Vancouver (Or Michigan) Anymore

2012-02-10T10:52:00.000-08:00

How do I know? The blessed woman in charge of bringing snacks to my moms' Bible study group this morning brought breakfast burritos. Red and green.

O happy day.

Something Worth Reading #1: Minnie and Moo Go to Paris

2012-02-07T19:53:00.000-08:00

"It is not enough to simply teach children to read; we have to give them something worth reading. Something that will stretch their imaginations--something that will help them make sense of their own lives and encourage them to reach out toward people whose lives are quite different from their own.”

-- Katherine Patterson

We are in the midst of a great paradigm shift in our family. Both of our older two children are transitioning from kids who are exclusively read to to kids who can read for themselves. If you've ever witnessed this transformation, you know how truly magical it is. I sort of know how it happened; after all, I am the one who has been sitting with the children and the phonics book every day, talking about short and long vowel sounds, silent letters, and sight words. But on the other hand, how the kids made the transition from looking at letters like black decoration on a page, to looking at them in order to find out information is kind of a mystery to me. And when I sit and listen to them read, I am still tempted to stop them and say, "Wait. Who read this to you already? How have you memorized this book without my knowing it?" It is, in every sense of the word, delightful.

I do, however, agree with the esteemed Katherine Patterson (author of The Bridge to Terebithia, Jacob Have I Loved, and The Great Gilly Hopkins, among others), that teaching kids to read isn't enough. We have to give them something worth reading, something that will not only equip them to read census forms and driver's license applications, TV Guide and USA Today, but something that will give their imaginations a good hard workout, help them to understand something of their own experiences, and then help them reach out beyond themselves. Patterson says that good books help kids "make sense of their own lives." C.S. Lewis said something similar when he asserted that "we read to know we are not alone," and his Inkling colleague G.K. Chesteron said (in defense of reading children fairy tales with sometimes violent or disturbing images): "Fairy tales do not tell children the dragons exist. Children already know that dragons exist. Fairy tales tell children the dragons can be killed.”

This means that I'm constantly on the lookout for good, true, worthwhile books. Often, when I happen across them, it's pure dumb luck. If you've ever been in the children's section of a public library, you know that finding good books can be a bit of a needle-in-a-haystack kind of proposition. As with many things, there are many pretty mediocre books, some real stinkers, and a very few brilliant gems, and their covers aren't always helpful in determining which is which. Staring at the shelves, you're faced with thousands of tiny, narrow bindings and you just can't pull them all off the shelf, flip through them and then put most of them aside. Plus, more than likely, you're there with your actual children, who don't always behave completely respectfully in public places and are often more interested in the fish in the giant aquarium at the entrance than they are in finding good books to read. Time is often of the essence. "Go pick a book," I say, and so they walk to the shelf, pull off the first blue/pink/any color book they find and say, "OK, I want this one." "Really???" I say, "My Little Pony Goes Shoe Shopping?" "Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dummerest of All?" So sometimes I do some sneaky switcheroos; sometimes I just flat out say "no"; and sometimes I let them take home books that are less than stellar and figure it will all come out in the wash, like I sometimes choose to do with their toys.

And so, I've decided to do some occasional moonlighting as LeVar Burton and talk about books that come our way that do seem worthwhile (Come on, sing it with me: "Butterfly in the sky, I can fly twice as high..."). First of all because, they're books, and I pretty much love talking about books more than most other things, and second of all, because I'd love to help out any other parents who are looking for good things to read to and with their kids (and maybe sometimes just for themselves).

And so, without further ado, "Something Worth Reading #1: Minnie and Moo Go to Paris"

It has been especially hard to find really enticing early readers, books that are clever and well-crafted, as well as being at a level that I. and A. can read for themselves. Dick and Jane do not interest me that much, phonetically adequate though they may be. However, today one book inspired a first-ever situation in our house: I. is not what I would call an eager reader, though he isn't exactly reluctant either. Given the choice between reading himself and listening, he would choose listening every time, and, though he often picks up a book of his own free will, it's almost always to look at the pictures, not to read the words. However, when he got to the end of chapter four of Minnie and Moo Go to Paris by Denys Cazet and and I said, "are you ready to quit now?" he turned to me, eyes wide and said, "NO, NO! Can I PLEASE keep reading? PLEASE??"

"Well..." I said, drawing on my feigned apathy skills, "I guess so, if you really want to..." And when we got to the end of chapters five, six and seven, he was still really excited and begged to be able to keep reading. Needless to say, we finished the book in one sitting. Minnie and Moo are two cows (even though, in the picture above they look like slightly deformed turtles or something) who get themselves into silly situations that kept both I. and A. giggling through the whole book. This was the second of Cazet's series of books we've read; we began with Minnie and Moo and the Potato from Planet X, which was equally engaging and fun to read. We will definitely be keeping Cazet's name on our "go-to" list for future library visits and check the shelf to see what else he's come up with.

How To Be A Stay-At-Home Mom Without Loosing Your Mind: Tell the Truth

2012-01-27T20:20:00.000-08:00

My good friend from our Regent days, Katie, invited me (along with other of her mom-blogging friends) to be a "guest writer" for her blog on the topic of "how to be a stay-at-home-mom without loosing your mind." If you follow this link, you'll see that her request seems to have touched a nerve in me. I appreciated the invitation and enjoyed the opportunity to do some thinking and writing on a topic that's been on my mind lately. Thanks, Katie!

Barbie Dolls, Army Men, and Kids, Oh My!

2012-01-27T14:37:00.000-08:00

So. What should I have done when we moved into a house that came equipped with toys that I had sworn I would never let my kids play with? Should I have packed them up and put them high on a closet shelf, even after they had seen them and begged to play with them? Should I have sat down and had a heart-to-heart with my five-year-old daughter explaining the link between Barbies and girls' low-self-esteem (not to mention their implicit messages about women, beauty, and the desirability of impossible anatomical proportions)? Should I have explained in detail to my seven-year-old son that I think that playing with army men implies a casual view of violence which will then eventually lead to his condoning of war as an appropriate solution to the world's problems? Should I have let them play with the toys, but only under the condition that the army guys never fire their rifles and the Barbies only act as conflict resolution experts (equipped with their Ph.Ds in political science or sociology)? Maybe.

But here's what I actually did: I left them out, in among the other toys as just another playtime option. And here's why: I am operating under the theory that, even for five and seven-year-olds, it is the unattainable things that end up being the most desirable. This is the same reason why I try really hard to feed my kids very healthy food, most of the time, but don't freak out when they eat junk every now and then. I guess I'm hoping that when they're grown up they won't feel compelled to binge on Little Debbie Oatmeal Pies, potato chips, and fruit roll-ups, just to make up for lost time. A. used to beg me to buy her Barbie dolls, and when I told her that "Mommy is never, ever going to spend money on those," she used to reply, "Well then, when I'm sixteen, I'm going to go to the store and buy them myself." Fine, I'd say, be my guest. But since moving here and having the box of Barbies readily available to her, she has gotten them out, maybe two or three times, played with them for a while and then packed them away again, with not a word about how desperately she has wanted to play with them and her purchase plans. She has spent much more time drawing, playing with her baby doll, and making a town for the fisher price little people. I. never begged for army men, but has enjoyed getting out those little green guys and their tanks, and setting up battlefields on the kitchen table. However, he, too, has only played with them a few times, and has spent much more time with his electronic set, his Legos and a plastic train track. They all spend way more time talking about and playing "Little House on the Prairie" than "fashion show" or "war". Plus, it's been instructive to watch them actually playing with the toys. A. plays with the army guys as much as the boys, and, of course, boys can always find creative things to do with Barbie dolls (see picture below). I don't know if this will turn out to be a good parenting move or not, but right now I have to think that it's better to not give the toys more weight than they deserve by making them seem way more desirable than they really are. I am not about to make Bratz dolls or little toy automatic pistols readily available to them on the same theory, however. Every mom has to have a line somewhere.

Child-Rearing and the Delicate Art of Potty Training

2012-01-23T14:55:00.000-08:00

The other night, the Mr. and I were watching a sitcom which features probably the worst mother ever created by a television screen writer, who delivered the following line: "I may not have been a perfect mother, but you know kids don't come with a handbook!" At which point, the always-reasonable and calm voice of the narrator broke in to say, "In fact, there are thousands of books written on child-rearing, but Lucille was in denial."

The narrator is, of course, right. There are thousands of books written on child-rearing, from every perspective under the sun. There are books that will tell you that co-sleeping (or "the family bed") is the only way to raise natural, healthy, sane children, books that tell you co-sleeping will wreck your children beyond all recognition. There are books that describe how to feed your children only raw, organic, vegan diets, and books that encourage you to trick your children into eating vegetables by baking them into brownies. There are books on attachment parenting, never-say-no parenting, green parenting, traditional parenting, non-traditional parenting and parenting with the help of two martinis during play dates.

As parents take their first tentative steps into the land of "bringing up a child in the way he should go," they are bombarded with advice from all sides, bright and blazing and absolute as neon billboards. "Let him cry until he goes to sleep." "Never let him cry at all." "Leave him with a babysitter when he's three years old." "Strap him to your body and never let him go until he's at least three." "Never feed your baby anything but breastmilk." "If you give him fruits before he eats vegetables he'll never eat anything healthy again." "TV will kill your child." "Don't ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever let him sleep on his stomach. EVER." And on and on and on.

As a new parent, you listen, don't you? You don't want to screw this up too much, so you listen, and you pay attention. You might even align yourself into a camp, identifying yourself as a "James Dobson" kind of parent, or a "Kevin Leman" kind of parent, or a "Babywise" kind of parent. You might read all the books and pay attention to all the advice, and try to follow it as best you can. You'll leave the TV off, breastfeed the baby, and listen to lots of Mozart.

Then you reach potty-training.

Called by one writer "the trickiest parenting move you will yet have to perform," it can be a killer. All bets are off, it seems as some children practically train themselves in a day or two and others take years of good, hard work. Of course, some people would have you believe that you can potty-train (or do they call this "elimination control"?) your new-born infant, dust off your hands and be done with it. Others would suggest that you need to wait until the child drags you to the potty himself and begs, "please, mommy, can I please use it now???" There are lots of books, lots of methods, lots of philosophies on this one, but when you come up against the child with the iron will, the one so stubborn that he can shatter your diamond-hard resolve like it is a sugar cube, honey, you are on your own. If he has decided that he WILL NOT use a potty, you are left with very little ammo in your arsenal. You can try threats, coercion, bribery, tearful pleading, humiliation, and guilt. You can try to make it as fun as a carnival or as punishing as solitary confinement. You can sit him there for hours. You can bait him with M&Ms. You can try to prime the pump with prune juice. You can make him take personal responsibility and clean up his own messes. You can do anything you want, but in the end, you cannot make this little Skinner-box rat push that little bar if he doesn't want to. End of story.

And that's when you have to remember, this is a person you're dealing with, not a dishwasher or a microwave. Sitcom Lucille might have been in denial, but she was right: kids don't come with instruction manuals. Some people might have some sort-of helpful things to say, but in the end, you, along with everyone else, are left with the only school of parenting that works, the "Make It Up As You Go Along" school. And if you, the parent of this child of the truly muscular will, remember that this really is the only sensible option left to you, you just might happen on the thing that works (in this case, at this time): Feigned Indifference. "You need to go potty? Oh well. Ho Hum. Yawn. I suppose you should probably do that then. Let me know how that goes for you."

And, voila!

It's truly magical how well this "making it up" thing works. It works so well, in fact, that you think you might be onto something here. Maybe you should copyright your idea...You could write a book (Making it Up as You Go Along: A Parent's Guide to Everything you Need to Know About Child-Rearing)...a couple of books (Making More Stuff Up; Making Make It Up Make Cents!; Making it Up AGAIN!)....go on speaking tours (Making It Up LIVE!!) ...do a video series (Making It Up Kinda LIVE)...with a companion series for kids...(You Can Make It Up TOO!) and come up with a catchphrase (You (in flashy suit in front of large crowd on a PBS special): "Now, whaddaya gonna do?" Audience (all smiling, all screaming loudly): "MAKE. IT. UP!!!").

Yeah, or maybe you should just breathe a prayer of thanks and leave it at that. Because, of course, the "Making It Up As You Go Along" school is also known as the "Desperately Clinging to God's Grace" school, or maybe the "Holy Spirit Please Help Me" school and you really don't need to be claiming too much of the credit here.

Now. How on earth are you going to get him to quit sucking his thumb?

What a Difference a Dog Makes

2012-01-17T15:05:00.000-08:00

Ever since we left Tucson and had to give up our beloved pug Gus, our family has been hankering after a dog. Living in Vancouver, we got to see hundreds of beautiful and incredibly well-behaved dogs walk by our house and in the park across the street. Our kids got to be friends with several of them (notably, Clancy, the Irish wolfhound, Mikka, the Alaska sled dog, and Kara the sheep dog) and their very patient owners. We have had endless conversation about what kind of dog we would like to get when we finally have a house of our own. The kids have loved reading about Henry Huggins and Ribsy and enjoyed all the James Herriot stories about dogs. They constantly pay attention to dogs and know more breed names than I do. And now, finally, we have moved into a house that came with a dog! Meet Rusty, the Cavalier King Charles Spaniel, and also the World's Longest-Suffering dog. In the mornings when the kids come downstairs, they run right to Rusty's bed, give him a hug and a kiss and ask us if we've fed him already (always the answer is yes). They dance with him, chase him, throw him toys to fetch, play with him in the backyard, and take him for walks around the house. Every time he has the slightest whim to go outside, they beg to be allowed to open the door, and then they faithfully watch for him to want to come inside again. He has been a hospital patient, police dog, and zoo attraction (he hasn't been dressed up in baby doll clothes yet, but perhaps that's just because no one has thought of it). His days are so exhausting that at the end of them, when the kids are finally in bed, he just has to crawl up into Kurt's lap for a little more cuddling. Even though it's just for these moments, we all feel like we've found a "family's best friend."

A Letter From A Disgruntled Parent

2012-01-10T14:11:00.000-08:00

To Whom it May Concern:

As a parent, I believe that it is my dutyto make sure that the education that my son is receiving is of thehighest quality possible and of a type that will enable to him tosucceed, not only in his present endeavors, but also in the years andyears (and years, my child is destined to be a doctor) to come. Therefore, when I observed some of the things going on in my son'sfirst grade classroom, I felt as though I had to write and let youknow about some of my deep reservations and misgivings concerning histeacher and her methods and practices.

I will begin with her experience, orrather, her lack of experience. I believe I am correct in sayingthat not only does she have absolutely no prior experience teachingelementary school, but she has never even completed a college courseon the subject? First-year teachers are a parent's worst nightmare,as everyone knows, but this woman is a complete novice, without anelementary education degree or any classroom experience beyond havingtaught Sunday School a few times! She assures me that she has readmany books on the subject and spent many hours reading otherteacher's blogs, but can this really be any substitute forinstruction under a qualified professional? I think not.

Her lack of professional experience isbetrayed by her markedly unprofessional behavior in the classroom. Her classroom is disorderly and unorganized, with stacks of books andpapers everywhere. I have seen only haphazard evidence of lessonplanning, and what planning she has done has been of a very slipshodand in a “fly-by-the-seat-of-her-sweat-pants” kind of manner. I havebeen told that one day (it being particularly "sunny") that sheabandoned her lesson plan altogether and took the children to thepark instead! Apparently she arrives at school every day in jeansor shorts and a T-shirt, and my son reported me to that one day sheactually came to school in her pajamas, without having taken a showeror brushed her teeth. Such a lackadaisical approach to her ownpersonal hygiene can only betray a similar attitude toward theeducation of my son, a fact which I find disturbing in the least. Has she even consulted our state's educational standards? I highlydoubt it. Is she planning to cooperate in the administration of any state-sponsored achievement tests? It seems very unlikely. Will she be able to demonstrate by the end of the year that my child has been thoroughly prepared for second grade? I ask you.

I am also very concerned about my son'sexperience in the classroom. It appears that there are only twoother children in his class, one of whom is actually in kindergarten,and the other who is is preschool. Aside from the problems that thispresents for classroom management (which, frankly appears to be oneof his teacher's prominent weak points – more on that later), whatare the implications of this for my son's proper socialization? Howis he to learn correct school behavior when his only classmates areyounger than he, and spend much of their school days sitting on thefloor playing with matchbox cars and Strawberry Shortcake dolls,defacing school property with crayons and markers, and running aroundplaying a very ad hoc game ofbaseball with spoons, rulers and rubber balls? How will helearn to walk in a line? To raise his hand to ask a question? Toclean erasers and respond to the ringing of a bell? I realize thatlow student enrollment is not his teacher's fault, per se,but all the same, I question her ability to instill a sense ofappropriate school decorum in such a uniquely disadvantageoussituation.

Andnow I come to what might be my most worrying critique: my son'steacher's classroom management skills are severely lacking. Imentioned before that my son's classmates spend very little timeactually learning anything and most of their time wandering aroundand generally creating mischief, which is very distracting forsomeone who is obviously trying his hardest to assimilate all of thenecessary information. It is only natural, then, that he should attimes become frustrated and dissatisfied. In my conference with her,his teacher reported “incessant whining, bellyaching, complainingand general lack of enthusiasm and motivation” on the part of myson, which frankly I find hard to believe. And I know for a factthat at one point, she actually raised her voice in angerat him and told him to “grow up” and then buried her own head inher hands and let out a small sob. How can this be consideredappropriate professional behavior? I have also marked the distinctlack of a classroom prize box. How on earth does she expect my son to bemotivated to study his spelling words without the presence of a boxof trinket-prizes, such as small animal-shaped erasers, bouncy balls,snow globes, rolls of Smarties and the like? I think she will findit almost impossible.

I would like to schedule a meeting with Someone In Charge as soon as possible, so that we can discuss these matters and expedite the dismissal of my child's teacher, who clearly has no business educating anyone, let alone my singularly gifted and talented child. Thank you very much for your attention to this matter.

Sincerely,

A Very Concerned Parent

Epiphany

2012-01-06T19:42:00.000-08:00

No, I haven't had one (an epiphany, that is), but it is (Epiphany, that is). The Christian season of Christmas ended last night with Twelfth Night, and today, a new season is upon us -- Epiphany. This is the time of year we think and talk about the life of Jesus, beginning with the arrival of the three kings, or wise men, who brought their gifts to the Christ Child. I couldn't help but think about T.S. Eliot's poem "The Journey of the Magi" today (click on the poem's title and you'll be taken, not only to a printed version of the poem, but to a recording of Eliot reading it himself). I guess I have Eliot on the brain. But those haunting opening lines have been running in my head all day today:

A cold coming we had of it,
Just the worst time of the year
For a journey, and such a long journey:
The ways deep and the weather sharp,
The very dead of winter.'

I was reminded of it again, after receiving several emails from friends who have, like us, made long and cold journeys at this, the "worst time of the year." Many of us braved snow and cold; many have arrived in a place that we knew before, but now know in a completely different way. Almost all of us think we have at least a vague idea of what we're looking for, a star that we think we're following, but like the Magi, none of us know exactly what we'll find. But it is good to know that we are on this journey with friends. Peace to all of you who are still travelling and all who have already arrived.

Merry Christmas Crinkles

2012-01-03T19:59:00.000-08:00

I know that the day itself is past, but according to my calendar, Christmas doesn't end until midnight on January 5th. So, since I didn't get to do any other Christmas baking this year, today The Girl and I made what amounts to my traditional Christmas cookie: Chocolate Hazelnut Crinkles. They are definitely worth the wait.

Fragments of Home

2012-01-03T19:19:00.000-08:00

[I am struggling to find the narrative which will tie all of these things together, the pictures, ideas and memories that in my mind are part of a whole, but which, when I try to write them out, come out as pieces, shards of a mosaic which has yet to take shape. So here they are, the fragments that I will "shore against my ruins," as Eliot said at the end of The Waste Land, in hopes that, like in a magic eye picture, the pattern will emerge, and with it, a bit of beauty.]

1. A[nother] quote by Eliot

Home is where one starts from. As we grow older

the world becomes stranger, the pattern more complicated

Of dead and living. Not the intense moment

Isolated, with no before and after,

But a lifetime burning in every moment

And not the lifetime of one man only

But of old stones that cannot be deciphered.

T.S. Eliot, from "East Coker" in Four Quartets

2. An observation

The arch of mountains against a bright blue desert sky, pine trees, the tight, dry air against my face, the glitter of snow like a thousand broken bottles along the sides of the highway, the sharp scent of sage rubbed between my fingers, the glide of a hawk, a rich, roasted green chile burn that runs all the way from my tongue to my stomach and clears my sinuses and my mind. This is where I started from.

3. Some obsessions

We have all become a little house-obsessed. I've been looking at paint samples in hardware stores, wondering about the right color for a dining room or a den and watching "House Hunters" on HGTV. A. has been drawing picture after picture of houses, all with two boxy windows, all with rectangular doors and triangular roofs. Every night before they go to sleep, I sing "Home, Home on the Range" (by their request) to C. and A. And in our last week in Michigan, after hearing that Daddy had a big test to take, I. asked, "If he doesn't pass it, does that mean we don't get to have our own house some day?"

4. A question

As we drive across the endless blank prairie of western Kansas, I think to myself, "Why on earth would Dorothy ever want to leave Oz to come back here?"

5. Of course, a little music

There are so many songs of home, many of which have been wafting through my mind over the last few weeks: "Gee, but it's great to be back home, home is where I wanna be, yeah!"; " Let me go home, I wanna go home, I feel so broke up, I wanna go home." Perhaps we sing about home because to speak of it is to rip open that part of ourselves that is the most childlike, the most afraid, the most vulnerable. Home is more melody than discourse, more music than thesis, more fiddle, banjo and mandolin than microphone, megaphone, or telephone. A house is something you build; a home is something you sing.

6. Another observation

The used diapers tossed into the parking lot, the mud-encrusted pickup trucks, the homeless alcoholic pushing his shopping cart down Route 66, the sheer ridiculousness of having my reusable bags stolen at the grocery store, the tinder dry tumble weed tangled in a barbed wire fence. This is where I started from, too.

7. A memory, sort of

At church on Sunday, the first day of the New Year, I am greeted by familiar face after familiar face, and each of them alight with a special joy at seeing me. These people shake my hand, give me a hug, ask me about my children, my parents, my husband. I am suddenly reminded of my baptism, and the fact that at least some of them were there that day, and when Reverand Veenstra said, "Do you, the people of the Lord, promise to receive this child in love, pray for her, help instruct her in the faith, and encourage and sustain her in the fellowship of believers?" And they answered, "We do, God helping us." And then, they took care of me in the nursery and taught my Sunday School classes. They encouraged my fumbling first efforts at playing piano in church and were there to celebrate my profession of faith. They sent me care packages when I was in college and were in the congregation when I was married.

"Welcome back," many of them say today. "Welcome home."

8. An odd kind of icon

In The Little House on the Prairie books, whenever Ma Ingalls finishes moving into a new house, she puts her china shepherdess up on the mantelpiece or the carved bracket, in a place of honor. It doesn't matter if it is a sod dugout or a rough-hewn log cabin or a house built with factory split boards, the china shepherdess in place means that the family is home. I realize, as we move into another new house, that I have no "china shepherdess", no icon or talisman that signifies that we have moved in and are home. The closest thing I have is a plastic box of herbs and spices that have traveled with me from Arizona to British Columbia to Michigan to New Mexico, some of them possibly older than my marriage, several of them definitely older than my kids. Perhaps the cloves and allspice and that big container of dried parsley will have to do.

9. The Christmas bit

I think about them sometimes, that young homeless couple, forced to travel just at the coldest time of the year. She, so heavily pregnant she could think of nothing else but the urgent desire to give birth. He, roped into this fantastic experiment by an angelic dream and the love of a good woman. And then the hotel is full, the manager with nothing to offer but the stable out back. As the pain came over her in waves so strong that she needed him to remind her to breathe, did it ever occur to her that once he was born, this Son of Man, would have no place to lay his head? As he held her hand, and the fear of loosing her stuck like a stone in his throat, did he ever think about the fact that he would never be able to build a house large enough to hold the Son of God?

10. A conclusion, perhaps

We all, like the Son of Man, begin in those smallest of homes, those warm and close wombs that cradle and satisfy our every need. Whether or not we are born into love, we are born out of love, not one of us a mistake or an accident. Some of us are born into homes, some of us are born into mere houses, some of us are born into stables and stone mangers, but every one of us is born a homebody, with the memory of that ancient love song ingrained in our sinews and bones. Every step, every move, every mile down the road is an attempt to hear the tune, to read the story, to be at home again. For now, for me, being home means being in the place where I started. For tomorrow, who knows?

11. Post Script: One final quote from Eliot, because its perfect

We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.
Through the unknown, unremembered gate
When the last of earth left to discover
Is that which was the beginning;
At the source of the longest river
The voice of the hidden waterfall
And the children in the apple-tree
Not known, because not looked for
But heard, half-heard, in the stillness
Between two waves of the sea.
Quick now, here, now, always
A condition of complete simplicity
(Costing not less than everything)
And all shall be well and
All manner of thing shall be well
When the tongues of flame are in-folded
Into the crowned knot of fire
And the fire and the rose are one.

T.S. Eliot, from "Little Gidding" in Four Quartets

The Journey: In Review

2011-12-27T19:58:00.000-08:00

Miles Traveled: 1806.1 (from Bluffton, IN to Gallup, NM)
Miles Jenn drove: 0

Days since we left Holland, MI: 9
Different beds slept in: 5
Amount of cubic feet left over in the car once we had it completely packed: Just enough to breathe
Stops at McDonalds: 0 (!!!!!)
Swiffer covers Jenn knitted while in the car: 2
Mornings we used the pancake makers at the hotel hot breakfast bar: 2
Number of times we celebrated Christmas: 2
Most amount paid for gas: $3.20
Least amount paid for gas: $2.75
National Monuments Visited: 1 (St. Louis Arch)
Number of souvenirs purchased: 1 (Rag Doll named Rosemary)
Pairs of sunglasses accidentally dropped in rest stop toilet: 1
Hours spent driving through Kansas: 8-ish
Hours it felt like: at least 22
Sick kids: 3
Trips to Walmart for emergency sick-kid supplies: 3
Highest recorded temperature: 102.1

Bottles of children's Tylenol consumed: 1.25
Professional sports teams' stadiums passed: 5
Miles driven in sketchy and/or hazardous road conditions: about 50
Cars seen in the ditch or median: 8
Times our car was so stuck Jenn had to drive while Kurt pushed: 1
Wires, adapters and gadgets needed to run ipod and watch movies on computer while on the road: 5
Episodes of Thomas the Tank Engine watched: 30-something
New cartoons children were introduced to by watching cable TV in hotel rooms: 3 (Tom and Jerry, Popeye, Yogi Bear)
Hours spent sledding: 1.5
Dental appointments: 1
Amount of time it took: about 10 minutes (nothing to worry about; everything's fine)
Amount of relief felt at finally pulling into the driveway at parents' house: immeasurable

Yes, Michigan! The Feeling's Forever!

2011-12-16T19:17:00.000-08:00

When The Mr. was growing up, there was an ad that used to run on TV in Indiana for the state of Michigan, and ever since I've known him, he's sung the last line of the ad's ditty whenever the state of Michigan has been mentioned: "Yes Michigan, the Feeling's Forever!" Literally, every time. You can see a 1986 "music video" version of these ads in the video below if you, too, would like to live the magic.

For a kid from Indiana, these ads made Michigan seem pretty exotic: all that water, all those dark mysterious forests, all those exclusive ski resorts. Michigan had beaches and big cities and people dressed up in period costumes. And if you watch the video, you can very easily get the sense that these Michigan people do actually have something to brag about. It's truly beautiful. So, when moving to Michigan for a time started to seem inevitable, he got kind of excited. Yes! Michigan!

I, on the other hand, had more than a few reservations. I had actually been known to say to God, at several points in my life: "Please, you can send me anywhere, Siberia, Antarctica, deepest Africa, just not the Midwest. And pretty please, not Michigan!" Growing up in the sun-soaked southwest had completely prejudiced me against anywhere that had more cloudy than sunny days in the winter, where the summers hung heavy with humidity, where the landscape consisted of flat cornfield after flat cornfield. Plus, growing up in the Christian Reformed Church, but not living near denominational headquarters, soured me on Michigan in general and Grand Rapids in specific. There's a reason outsiders refer to the place (with their tongues in their cheeks) as "G-R-usalem". Some people can project the attitude that "if it ain't west Michigan and dutch, it ain't much!" and this really turned me off.

However, as pretty much everyone knows, making those kinds of bargaining requests of God almost certainly guarantees that you'll end up doing the very thing that you wished to avoid in the first place. So, there I was this summer, moving to the very place I had tried to avoid. And of course, like so many things I have tried to avoid in my life, but ended up doing anyway, life in Michigan turned out to be, well, not so bad actually. We got to the state in time to watch summer sink brilliantly into fall, to collect flame-red fallen leaves, to drink apple cider from the farmers' market, and to watch in awe as the first dazzling snow fell onto the holly bushes outside our windows. We got to swim in Lake Michigan on a hot 80-degree late summer afternoon and stand on the beach and watch the same lake whipped to a fury by 40-mile-an-hour November winds. We enjoyed living in a community that offered a lot of things for our family to do, many more than we could actually take advantage of.

There may still be whiffs of West Michigan superiority floating about in the area in general and the CRC in specific. Ironically, though, the only person I talked to who was so enthusiastically pro-Michigan that she could legitimately work for the tourist board as a promoter of the state was a transplant herself, a Tucson native who simply could not stop talking about how much she loved living in Grand Rapids (yes, Sara, that's you!). Her enthusiasm was infectious and compelling because I knew that it was birthed out of a love for a place that she had, in spite of being born and having lived somewhere else. And though we have left Michigan for more westerly spaces, we are not running, with the feeling that we have barely escaped with our lives. Indeed, if the past four months have taught us anything, it is that living in Michigan would be possible, offering some things to be excited about, even for a desert-born girl like me. I feel like our time here was a gift and a lesson in having my expectations turned on their heads. And that's always a good thing.

(Enjoy the song "Michigan" by the Milk Carton Kids, who we just recently heard in concert with Over the Rhine at Calvin College. It's not really about Michigan, per se, but Michigan provides the geography for the song. It's really beautiful.)

We Wake To Wonder

2011-12-11T17:58:00.001-08:00

We wake to wonder,
stirred out of a sleep
that has wrinkled our souls,
grown them older than our bones,
called by a cold white quiet
soft and still as a shroud
or the clothes
that wrapped a new-born babe.

Dear Facebook,

2011-12-07T11:55:00.001-08:00

It's time. I know I've been kind of leading you on, pretending like I'm interested and then giving you the cold shoulder, not returning your calls, ignoring your emails. I know I've been playing hard to get, feeding you lots of "I say no but I really mean yes" kind of miscommunication. I know. My fault. But now it's time for me to come clean and tell you that it's over. Really and truly over.

I know, this is something I should have admitted long ago, but this kind of breaking up isn't easy to do. I mean, we were so intertwined, me and you. It was almost like we were the same person. I would tell you my all about my innermost self and you would bandage my bruised ego; it was almost like we were made for each other. But in the end, I have to admit that the problem with our relationship isn't you. It's me.

There are a lot of things I could try to blame you for. It's true that you're kind of flakey and devious, all at the same time. You show up with lots of glitz and glitter and then don't really follow through when push comes to shove. And you're kind of sneaky too, always checking up on me, snooping on my conversations, following me around, encouraging me to whisper secrets in your ear and then blabbing them to everyone. Privacy has never been a real priority of yours, has it? Not to mention the fact that you're a bit of confidence trickster. Every time I think you're telling me something for my own good, I find out that actually you're trying to sell me something I don't really need. You're a lobbyist in disguise, a K Street guy, a Madison Avenue Man, dressed up with a friendly smile and cotton T-shirt stretched over the slickest, flashiest suit that money can buy (oh, all that money...).

And I haven't even begun to talk about what you've done to my friendships with other actual, real, flesh-and-blood people. Sure, you encouraged me to think that I have hundreds of friends, that because of you I'm connecting to a world-wide network of people that care about me so much that they really want to know what I ate for lunch last Tuesday or what movie I just watched, or what I'm thinking about right now. Sure, you helped me remember their birthdays and let me know how they were doing in their quests to farm entirely imaginary tracts of land. You helpfully pointed out their friends and their friends of friends and friends of their friends of their friends, just in case I might want to forge a cyber bond with of them. And yes, you've helped me keep up with their weddings, the births of their children, their moves, their job searches, their prayer requests. It's been really convenient because I haven't actually had to talk to any of them for months now.

But what about my brain, my attention span, the way that when I'm with you, you manipulate my environment in such a way that you encourage me to be satisfied with only skimming the surface of things? You reward me when I surf from here to there at my slightest whim, following go-nowhere trails, blithely skipping through other people's profiles, picking up a nugget here, a morsel there. Am I really dumber than I was before, or does it just feel like it? To be fair, this isn't really your fault. I mean, why should you be different from any other internet site out there?

Yes, I could blame you for all of these things. But really, what our break-up comes down to is this: I just don't like the person I become when I'm with you. When we hang out, I feel like I become a hyper-critical, jealous, mean-spirited kind of a person. I might begin a date with the greatest of intentions, but it isn't long before I find myself drooling over this person's wedding photos ("Why did my wedding pictures have to be so terrible?????"), annoyed by that person's seemingly endless cheerfulness ("Come on. No one is that happy all the time. NO ONE.") and bitter about another person's effortless balancing of motherhood, career, and personhood ("What's she reading? Should I be reading that too? What's she watching? Should I be watching that too? How in the heck does she have to bake cookies, build model airplanes and sew an entire wardrobe for her family??? Should I be doing that too?).

The fact is, when I'm with you, I'm almost always tempted to pretend I'm someone I'm not. I never say anything unless I'm pretty sure it's intelligent and/or funny. I never show any side of myself that is not completely put-together, with-it, and important. I never talk about the times when I feel pushed to the brink of my sanity, when I feel darkness pushing in around me like a great grey cloud. I never post pictures of my home in chaos, or the McDonald's bags in the trash can. You don't tolerate failure very well, do you? And I'm not strong enough to let it show anyway and let you say what you will. (And even if I did, even if I did let it be known that all was not well, wouldn't I be doing it, at least in part, for that momentary rush, that drug-like euphoria of "the comment" on my wall??). I've always thought that the mark of a good relationship is that each person in it is better, more truly themselves, more truly who they were made to be, because of the relationship. You, facebook, couldn't be more truly yourself. With you, what you see is what you get. You are exactly who you were made to be. When I'm with you, I am far, far from it.

So, it's over, facebook. I'm not prepared to say that you're unredeemable. There might be someone out there who can take you, spin you on your head and turn you toward good deeds. There might be someone for you who is confidant enough and strong enough to be completely transparent and authentic, even while they are with you. Seriously, there might. But that person is not me. So, good-bye, facebook. I know that this means there will be parties I will miss, conversations I will be left out of, pictures I won't be able to see. I know that there is an entire universe of coupons, links, u-tube videos, blogs, news articles and other internet ephemera that I won't even know is in existence. I even know that this means there might be friends I will loose. I guess I'm prepared to let that happen because I just don't think you're worth it.

Your un-friend,

Jenn

Super-Fantastic Old-Time Blog-O-Rama - ??????

2011-12-07T11:32:00.000-08:00

Because "fly, run, walk" is SO five years ago.

Because I no longer have "A View of English Bay".

Because all of my highly original and creative urls were already taken.

Because this is my third attempt at a blog and I'm going for broke.

Because it will be. Super-fantastic, that is, with a little bit of Old Time thrown in for good measure, and some big old O-Rama to round things off.

Because setting your sights high is a good thing, right?

Because I'm afraid that if I don't start writing again, I'm going to start loosing it.

So step right up, put your nickle in the slot, pull the flashing lever at your side, hang on tight, and keep your eyes open.