Dec 19, 2006 | Boy Wonder, This Life
So… remember Grim? Well, it turns out that Grim has issues with learning his multiplication tables. He has about half of them down cold–interestingly enough, what is memorized is intermittent. So, parts of table 4 and parts of table 6 etc… he gets and other parts he “just can’t memorize, it’s too hard!” In fact, the very suggestion that memorization is a key to his success in mathematics leads to full out melt-downs. “There are just so many. . . I will never be able to remember them all!”
What’s a mother to do? In my case, not much, since I’m not the Math and Science teacher around here. No, that job falls to poor IZ. However, it does typically mean that I wake up most Tuesdays and Thursdays to high drama in my house. I don’t like high drama. Period.
IZ likes to blame this on Boy Wonder’s second grade teacher. Mrs. Glassman believed in a more creative approach to math. If you didn’t know the answer to a simple problem in her class, why you could just create your own strategy, your own work around to solve the problem. No need for memorizing those pesky math facts, you could create an answer! Just look for a pattern and when you find it, replicate! A year of this and my pattern obsessed kid was hooked. An addict to the pernicious “work-around.” He’s never gotten clean.
Now IZ is straight from 1951, even if he was born two decades later. And while I tend to be the least linear person in these parts, I do agree with him in this matter. There are just some things, basic things, you need to learn and that means memorization! And what irks IZ more than anything, is not just that Boy Wonder seems completely committed to the fine art of the work-around; it’s that he has elevated it to high art in the first place. The simplicity and beauty, the very eloquence of mathematics is rendered muddied in the abstract permutations Boy Wonder seems dedicated to produce. This creates a sort of number anger that is both volatile and contagious. More often than not I wake up to IZ and Boy Wonder in heated debate at best and full-out warfare at worst.
Today was no exception. I call them “my dog with a bone and my puppy with a bone” for a reason. And the bone they most typically like to fight over is the efficacy of mathematics. People, let me just say here and now, I don’t like mathematics in the first place, I certainly can’t tolerate high drama around it before I’ve had my coffee! Having had enough, I decided to interfere. But instead of my typical, “Why can’t we all just get along? And where’s my coffee?” lament, I opted for a different tack.
I began by trying to convince my child the importance for learning the basics… that creating his own language for his work would make it really difficult in the future to communicate with other mathematicians. Yes, that’s right… I used a language analogy—I’m the English teacher after all. He just looked at me. “Yes, but, I have a better way! It makes more sense to me!” Perhaps… but I’m guessing that all his future college peers are going to feel exactly like IZ, not exactly sympathetic to his antics. Then, it hit me…
Unlike IZ, I don’t blame this on Mrs. Glassman. I think she gave my child a great advantage for his future. She awakened in him his deep desire to be an inventor and it will serve him well… if only he will accept that there are some things he’s going to have to learn old school. No, I fault something far more more insidious.
“Listen,” I begin,“I blame this on Star Trek! You watch that B’Lanna Torres (OMG, I know their NAMES) create work-arounds every time the Starship Voyager gets in trouble! Right?” He nods his head. The tears in his eyes are quickly evaporating and there is a new gleam in them… he’s hooked! Who knew Star Trek would come in so handy?
“Well, it’s like this,” I continue, “When B’Lanna creates a work-around she is still using the basic principles of engineering, she is just doing it in a creative way. She couldn’t do that if she didn’t know the basic rules. In fact, if she didn’t understand, let’s say the Warp Core so well, she couldn’t find new ways of fixing it… Right?”
At this point, let’s just say I’m freakin’ pleased with myself. I have NO idea what I’m saying, but some how, it’s getting through.”
“So, your multiplication tables, are like the Warp Core. They are the essential power behind making the starship fly. . . without it, you are just in dead space. Now, what you’ve been doing is something like having Voyager flying along just fine and B’Lanna deciding to do some experimenting with the Warp Core!” Oh the horror. He looks at me like I have to be kidding, because B’Lanna would never do that!
I continue, “You can imagine how upset Captain Janeway is going to be when her ship grinds to a halt because B’Lanna got a hankering to be creative!” Lots of nods. . . “In fact, Captain Janeway would probably take away B’Lanna’s replicator rations.” That would be bad, we both agree.
And with that, Grim disappeared. We agreed to work on learning his Warp Core basics at night together before bed. Flash cards may be old school, but they are effective! Misery does love company, after all.
I’m no fool. My kid is always going to be looking for the angle. He’s just wired to find new and interesting ways of seeing the world. This is a good thing. But learning the basics of any system is also a good thing. We have to understand the rules we are breaking to fully appreciate the beauty of doing so. Otherwise, we’re only running on intuition and intuition can take us just so far in the world before we bump into reality that the Warp Core basics we found so boring are completely necessary to saving the day. It’s true in writing, in science, in math, and in Space. And if you don’t believe me, you just need to ask my new best friend, B’Lanna Torres.
Dec 18, 2006 | This Life
Thursday’s storm blew away (ooh, bad pun) all my plans for showing you my recent thrift finds. I lost the light to photograph some of them and then, as you can see from the post below, other things sort of took center stage. Now, days later, I’m finding words difficult tonight for no particular reason and I think I’ll take this moment to post a few pictures of my newest treasures. I’m kinda hoping you won’t notice the lack of words.
I’ve had a huge love affair with thrift stores and vintage shops since I was about 13. Growing up poor, labeled clothing wasn’t even an option. I spent my hours sifting through the stacks trying to find interesting and unusual pieces to wear. I was a teenager—so, clothing was foremost on my mind, after boys. I scored colorful little jackets from the 40’s and old military coats. Tweed vests and pure wool sweaters. The men’s aisle was a veritable treasure trove of possibilities. Some of my finds I’d take home and refashion… others, were too perfect on their own and ended up paired with skinny jeans and spiky heels. I might not have been the picture of high fashion, but you couldn’t accuse me of following the trend. Something about embracing my difference made it OK to be different. And my clothes were better made than anything my peers were wearing. Vintage clothing taught me the importance of fine tailoring and the magic of quality materials. These are lessons I’ve never forgotten.
Part of the fun is all the sifting. There is a real thrill to spying something long since deemed pointless and bringing it back into use. A huge joy in finding a “deal” you’ll talk about every time you use it. “What this old thing? You wouldn’t believe what I paid for it!” Something so satisfying in seeing the potential of an item and with a little ingenuity making it completely your own. And then, there is the simple pleasure of beauty found.
Today, my interests run in a different direction. Ok, actually, my expanded waistline has altered my goals (ooh, bad pun, again!). Let’s face it, I’m not likely to fit into those 1940’s sizes in this lifetime ever again. Besides, there isn’t a decent vintage store within an hour’s drive so I content myself with finding other sorts of goodies. Yet, ever the optimist, I’m still holding out hope that the right piece of clothing will serendipitously find its way to me. Until then… I have these:
Dec 15, 2006 | This Life
As expected the power went down for most of Astoria with last night’s storm. It’s not the only thing that came crashing to the ground. While IZ was calling me outside to admire the visible white-caps on the river I could hear Boy Wonder shouting in the Dining room.
“Mom, Mom, MOM!!! The wind is blowing down the tree. THE WIND IS BLOWING DOWN THE TREE.”
Now, our kid has inherited my tendency toward hyperbole… so I didn’t take him too seriously. However, when I stepped back inside and headed to the window where he was watching the storm, it was pretty easy to see why he was upset.
Visibly shaken, he pelted me with his fear, “I TOLD you it was coming down! I tried to warn you! If you had only listened!” I very calmly explained that no amount of warning would have stopped this. If the wind was going to take down a tree that size, the only thing we could do was get out of the way. Then I headed to my neighbor’s house to make sure he was OK. Our 40′ Conifer was now in his backyard.
Fortunately, the tree just grazed his siding and caused no real damage to his property. At first we couldn’t raise him and I began to panic—so, I dashed off to the backyard to make sure he wasn’t under our now down tree. He wasn’t. In fact, he was gleefully explaining to IZ ,who had located him, that he was overjoyed to have our tree down. His view is vastly expanded. He only wishes it had taken down our unsightly shed with its fall. Joy.
Miraculously, no one was hurt and as it was the only major tree in our yard, we were confident that if the roof didn’t fly off, we were going to weather this storm just fine.
We were wrong. Poor IZ. While we woke to power this morning, his fancy Mercedes Benz of a printer suffered one too many jolts with the surge before we lost power and was refusing to boot up. It too was down. And getting it repaired is going to rival the expense of removing that tree. It seems that when you drive a Mercedes Benz getting your headlamp replaced can cost a fortune, even if it does read Chrylser on the casing… He spent the better part of his day on the phone with assorted contractors and claims adjusters.
Me? Well, I had put off doing blood work that was scheduled for yesterday. One day wasn’t going to cause any harm and I simply wasn’t motivated to do it yesterday. But putting it off until Monday would yield angry phone calls from my Dr.’s Office and I’ve had just about enough of people being snarky my direction… so, off I went.
Now, I have my blood drawn on a fairly regular basis… it’s one of the “perks” of being auto-immune. However, even regularity doesn’t keep me from being a complete weenie when it comes to needles. I’m better than I used to be. I used to have to take a posse of people with me to cheer me on and then drive me home when I inevitably passed out. But, with time, I’ve discovered that I can get through a blood draw with minimal drama as long as I can go horizontal BEFORE they start brandishing needles. Imagine my shock when I was told that the portable bed they usually haul out to accommodate my weenie antics was broken. Oh yes! Unless I wanted to spend an ungodly sum to have the blood pull in the E.R. I was doing this sitting up. First the tree, then the printer, it seemed I was next to come crashing down.
There was only one thing to do: I whipped out my red lipstick and applied a quick coat. There is nothing better for boosting your courage, nothing that can help you brace for the inevitable loss of dignity like red lipstick. Besides, if you are going to find yourself prone on a linoleum floor while several people wrench their backs trying to pry you free, you might as well look good comatose.
With freshly painted lips, I had the presence of mind to scoot my ample backside to the edge of the chair and prop my head back so that all the blood in my noggin didn’t completely drain to my feet. Amazingly, I didn’t go under.
It would seem that I wasn’t destined to come crashing down today after all. A little red lipstick and you can face the world, Dear Reader. Remember that the next time you feel like you might be gearing up to greet the linoleum face down.
Dec 14, 2006 | This Life
Feast your eyes on our sweet Gingerbread house.
It’s quite likely to be our dinner if the power does not hold. The weather is a hungry wolf, huffing and puffing with all her might. She wants in to feast and we feel her angry breath whipping through poorly insulated walls and ancient windows. Like most of our neighbors, we won’t know until tomorrow morning how much of our little house will be left standing.
Until then, please say a prayer for all us out here on the coast. We are braced for the worst and hoping for the best. We are thankful to at least have shelter (and a working wood stove) on such a day as this…and we are mindful of all those who are not so fortunate.
Dec 13, 2006 | Boy Wonder
See this little kid? Yeah, he doesn’t live here any more. Gone are the spontaneous hugs and scribbled hearts in crayon on my walls. Gone are lovely little expressions of gratitude and merriment. No more singing in the back seat of the car. No more dancing in the aisles of the store. This brooding boy now grunts his way through his day…and that’s when we’re lucky! Our bright, happy child has been snatched in the night and in his place is a very, very moody 10 year old. We never know from moment to moment: will it be the happy Boy Wonder or will it be his Evil Twin, Grim.
So, when the morning rolls around and IZ instant messages me, “Hey, is Boy Wonder awake” you can imagine my dread. He’s quiet. That’s good. He’s not making any noise at all… he’s either still asleep, as moody children are wont to do, or he’s avoiding schoolwork. It’s not any surprise when I message back, “Um, I’m not waking him up… YOU go do it.” If Evil Twin, Grim emerges from his room, I don’t want to be the one who faces him before coffee!
Evil Twin, Grim is cranky. He spits out his words with no amount of respect. Pointing out to him that consequences for his behavior are of his own making causes one to fear breathing wrong. His eyes narrow and boring holes into your soul he snaps, “You. Have. Offended. Me!” Heaven forbid. In a moment he’s angry, in the next he is a bundle of tears. (And, if you even hint to him that I told you any of this, I will deny ever knowing you.) I don’t remember signing up for Evil Twin, Grim. You can imagine why, lately, Chez Wonder hasn’t been such a wonderful place to live!
Now, there is a certain amount of attitude I’m willing to ignore. He is no doubt growing and suffering the awful side effects of hormone rushes. There is a requisite amount of door slamming and stair stomping to be expected. But, honestly—I’m not liking Grim all too much. Because, while I get his angst (premature, in my opinion) and his complete meltdowns and his bouts of irrational thought, not to mention the over abuse of words in my direction, what I’m missing is his sense of humor. He’s never been overly adept at laughing at himself while in the midst of drama—that’s to be expected at his age. But when the humor of everyday life is missing… then, you get a wee bit homesick for that quirky kid who used to wear your flip-flops with socks and groove to his own little beat. Where is that kid?
And then. Then he has his moments. He surprises you by paying attention. By being ever so thoughtful. By trying really hard to be pleasant. Yet, the specter of Grim’s eventual arrival lurks on the edges. That’s when you hear loud thumping on the stairs, the door slam open (yes, that’s possible) and he unceremoniously thrusts these into your hands:
“Here,” he grunts. “I was going to give these to you for Christmas, but, well here you go!” And you are taken aback that at 10 he knew the only thing you wanted for Christmas was a few handmade houses to begin a village of your own.
In your hands are little houses of wonder. And you remember that this, in all its brooding grimness and all its delightful wonder, this is exactly who you signed up to love.
Dec 12, 2006 | This Life
Evidently, my younger brother is head-over-heels in his nonchalant kind of way. I’ve not met this girl, but it is looking increasingly like she might be “related” in the future—So, in an attempt of goodwill and “Hey, look, our family isn’t as crazy as it seems” kind of gesture, I made them a pair of Smittens for Christmas.
I’d do a few things differently if I made them again—but, in all I’m OK with the results for a first attempt. It’s the thought that counts? Right? Here they are all wrapped up. Now, it’s just a matter of actually mailing them.
They are just young enough and certainly in love enough to think this is fun. I hope.
Dec 11, 2006 | This Life
It took awhile to get pregnant with Boy Wonder. His was a planned pregnancy; so while we were in the throes of attempting conception I was keenly aware of the potential due dates with each passing month. I charted and planned and generally obsessed over timing.
After a year of trying, it became apparent that no amount of planning was going to make this easy. And that fateful day finally arrived when we had to make a decision, “Do we skip trying to get pregnant this month to avoid having a December baby or do we not waste an opportunity and live with the consequences?” Oh the discussions around this question. IZ was all for trying…that should go without explanation. I wasn’t so sure. I’d known plenty of people who had December birthdays and to the one they hated it. I’d yet to meet a person who thought sharing their birthday with Jesus and Santa was a good idea. Now, it’s one thing if it just happens that way—but we were deliberately attempting to get pregnant. That made it seem worse, for some reason.
I won the argument. We put off trying that month and found ourselves pregnant the very next month. I felt vindicated in my decision. We would be having a late January baby—even if he came a wee bit early, we would be missing the whole Christmas/New Year season. I couldn’t have been more relieved and besides, I liked the idea of January. A beginning of the year baby for a new beginning to life. There was symmetry in the notion that appealed to my type A++ personality.
IZ spent my pregnancy teasing me… “You know, he could be early…” He’d rub my belly stirring up kicking feet inside, “You want to be Daddy’s little tax deduction, don’t you?!” I was not amused. At the time, a close friend was pregnant with her second child, also a boy. Her baby was due late December and even she would look at me and say, “You know, it could happen. I just have this feeling.” Why was I the only person worked up over the notion of a December baby?
This pregnancy was difficult—but as sick as I was with all the complications, I was just happy to BE pregnant. We’d known loss before. So, when I developed PIH over the Thanksgiving holiday that year, it became very clear that my January baby was going to be coming early. The question was, how early?
The answer was five weeks. Bed rest had bought me a good month more of pregnancy, so we avoided all the complications typically associated with premature babies. Boy Wonder was born after an arduous labor three days before Christmas. The nurses scrounged up a red beanie for his head and dubbed him their Christmas elf. It seems, my boy was destined to share his birthday with Jesus and Santa after all. It was going to have to be ok, because, it just happened that way. How like me to over think what should have been a basic biological response. Evidently, you can be too prepared!
And that, dear readers, is how I ended up decorating our Christmas tree in balloons, streamers, and little number Ones for his first birthday. Each year we do it a little differently than the year before. This year, we made Alicia’s origami lights and strung them on his tree. But tradition holds that we cut out numbers for the age he is turning and decorate them. Then, his birthday tree stays decorated until his official birthday on the 22nd. It seems only fitting that my Christmas baby should get a Birthday tree each year. If you have to share your big day with God Incarnate and a jolly red Saint, you might as well go big!
Dec 11, 2006 | This Life
So! I’ve been busy this weekend—despite the lack of writing. I’ve been meaning to post photos of Friday but I’ve been without my camera cable. Evidently, I “put away” the darn thing and then couldn’t remember where. Yeah. See, this is why I don’t bother cleaning.
Where was I? Right, photos of Friday. It starts when Boy Wonder mercifully opted for a sleepover this year instead of a big birthday party. He’s asking for the Moon this year and we said, “Big party and small gift, or the Moon and a sleepover of two.” He chose the latter. And can I just say, “whew!” I’m so over the thrill of throwing kid’s parties. I love the prep for it, but the actual events are completely overrated. Kids on sugar? Passive-aggressive parents in the corners playing the “Well, my Susie has a 3 digit I.Q.”game? I’d like to know whose idea that was, exactly, so I can express my perpetual gratitude for 10 years of insanity. NO MORE. After the paper crunch I couldn’t face the prospect of a gaggle of tiny sugar-high rascals and their assorted parents. Honestly, I’m not sure which group scares me more—and I’m thinking I might just place a moratorium on all kid’s birthday parties in the future. Until, say, grandkids. I’m thinking I’ll be recovered by then.
Anyhow, I was frankly relieved when Boy Wonder decided he’d rather hang with his buddy (even if he didn’t get the Moon for his birthday.) But that meant I spent Friday cleaning my pitifully ignored house. It seems, that in my “deer in headlights” zombie mode of paper writing I’d near enough neglected everything. And, as I so often tell my creative mess machine of a child, “Clean houses make people feel comfortable, dirty houses make people want to go home—now go clean your play space!” I set about spiffing our space up for the arrival Boy Wonder’s buddy. Somehow in the process, I put my camera cable in a safe place. In fact, I put everything away! It’s a wonder anyone can find their underwear, to be honest.
So, now… after several nights of insomnia: one kid induced (because the whole point of sleepovers is to NOT sleep) and the other dog induced (for.crying.out.loud.Sophie. stop.grooming.all.night!) I have finally remembered where I stashed my camera cable. The upside of insomnia means you can see photos of Friday.
Ok, well, one photo of Friday. There are more photos, of course, but that’s a different story and I’m only telling one story tonight. Unless, of course, I can’t sleep.
Dec 8, 2006 | This Life
This is one of my favorite photos from childhood. I love this photo for so many reasons. The clothes for the 70’s are amazing—do you see those long yellow knee-high socks and white patent leather shoes in the background? Yeah, that kid was popular! My dress was made by my mother when I was still at an age where I didn’t mind that so much. If you look closely, you will see I’m sporting 6 year old bling—I think yellow plastic, if I recall.
My mom snapped this photo on the day I graduated from Kindergarten. She’s always been adept at cutting people’s heads off or finding the strangest of compositions. So, it’s a bit of gift that I’m actually in this photo. Symbolically—I’m not center stage. That’s been my life and I’m OK with being on the side.
Since that Graduation Day, 30 years ago, I’ve donned a cap and gown several times to walk down a long aisle and receive a diploma. But it’s this snapshot I carry with me. It’s this little girl, so proud, so happy that I remember. She is who I cherish—because this little girl believed in the possibility of changing the world. She was snarky, temperamental, and fiercely loyal. She knew, even standing on the side, that she mattered. She didn’t have to be in the center of the picture to be special.
Now, 30 years later, it’s Graduation Day again. There will be no caps, no gowns. No long aisles to traipse down, no hands to shake. No moment center stage to commemorate the event. At the end of this long journey for a diploma, I’m OK with that. Because inside, there is ferocious six year beaming like daylight—she knows she can change the world from where she stands, on the side.
Dec 7, 2006 | This Life
UPDATE: For those of you who took the moment to stop and chant “Door A, Bob” with me—Thank you! She seemed to have heard you across the universe and agreed. My paper was accepted without revision, with LOTS of praise. I had to write two papers for this class, the first one Bob hated with a passion. So, the pressure was on for this last attempt. However, Bob was impressed and suggested that I consider writing as a vocation. She also suggested that I consider more education. I, of course, stopped listening after she said, “Door A, Wende!” So, don’t be getting any ideas!
Anyhow, I just wanted to express my gratitude for your companionship on my journey—especially those of you who did take the time to comment. It means more to me than you might know. It’s lovely to have friends—even if you are all scattered across the blogosphere. I didn’t feel alone yesterday, for that I am grateful!:) Thank you from the bottom of my heart! ~Wendelynn
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So it all comes down to this, at 3:30 this afternoon, my life becomes a game show. Will it be Door A or will it be Door B?
My paper is submitted and I am scheduled to speak to my assigned adviser at that time. Let’s call her Bob. Now, Bob is a by the books kind of girl and while she’s empathetic and isn’t afraid of alternative takes on theology—she’s kinda by the books. Which means I don’t have much hope for Door A.
Behind Door A lies freedom. If all goes well, my paper will be accepted without revision and I am officially done. A graduate. The sun will shine, miraculously. I will be free to bake cookies. To decorate. To get in the Christmas Spirit. Free from my enslavement to Seminary (what was I thinking anyhow? Five years of my life GONE and really, what did I learn? Probably shouldn’t say that just yet…) Free to begin paying off all my loans.
Behind Door B lies depression. Bob requires revision. Revision means another week of slogging through this incomprehensible tripe I’m passing off as a paper. Revision means Wende tailspins deeper into the “deer in headlights” zombie mode she’s been living in for the past week—waiting for this moment.
It’s hard to comprehend how 5 years of my life can come down to just one paper, just one phone call. And that reality has left me in a kind of stupor while I wait. I can’t get motivated to do anything. I’m just one revision from donning plaid and not washing my hair. One revision from singing Nirvana lyrics—All in all, is all we are.
So, I’m pleading with fate. I’m cajoling the universe. I’d be jumping up and down, if I wasn’t so tired, screaming loud enough to be heard across the miles, “I choose Door A, Bob!”
Because, let’s face it, I’m getting too old to pull off disaffected youth. And nobody wants to see me wearing plaid.
