Homework is Hell, or is it? How to Accommodate

Today's word is Accommodate.  It's one of those commonly misspelled words that once you learn it (AC*COM*MO*DATE), you never misspell it again.

I recently helped T1 have a better attitude about his homework.  For 7 months, he has been doing the same homework assignment every week.  Write the spelling words on Monday (5 times each), use each word in a sentence on Wednesday, and do the math and language arts sheets in between.  Turn in the homework on Friday.  Week after week after week after week.  Seven months--no wonder he finally rebelled.

Said rebellion occurred on a week when 25 spelling words came home.  Twenty-five words times 5 times each is 125 words.  Are you kiddin' me?!?  The school district has a policy that students should do 10 minutes of homework per grade level per night, so for second grade, that's 20 minutes.  I don't know about you, but I don't think even I could write fast enough to complete 125 words (legibly) in 20 minutes.  T1 was crestfallen.  Head hanging, lip quivering, he said, "That's going to take me so long, I won't have time to play."

Okay, no ridiculous, busy-work assignment is going to get in the way of my sensitive boy's need to PLAY.  He's 8 years old.  Eight-year-old boys NEED to play.

My solemn proclamations that he did NOT have to do this assignment were half-heartedly met with a strong desire to not have to do it, grappling with the need to fulfill his teachers' requirements (T1 has two part-time teachers who share the class.  I know. Don't even get me started on this one).  He was torn.  I find it so interesting that here's a boy who doesn't want to do the homework that he feels is useless, but one who also is either afraid of the consequences of not getting it done or compelled to be deemed worthy by doing what he's told.

I told him I'd okay a change with the teacher.  I wrote an email stating (not requesting) that we were changing the homework.  I referenced the district policy (figured they couldn't really argue with that) and let them know that from now on, T1 would be writing his spelling words only once and the ones he knew on the first day (seriously--words like "do" and "eat) he wouldn't have to write again.  Right?  If you know how to spell something, you know it; writing it five times will not help you know better something that you already know.  I would give him a spelling test every day, and those words that he didn't know, we would study.  And by study I mean study effectively looking at phonics and mnemonics to actually LEARN the nuances of the spelling.

Both teachers emailed a highly accommodating response.  No problem, they said.  You can modify homework in what ever way you think is appropriate to facilitate learning.  As long as he knows the concepts, how he gets there is okay by them.  Now T1 is challenged by the daily testing.  It feels like a game to see how many he can get right without studying them at all (answer is not very many) and how many he can learn as the week goes by (answer is all of them).  He's been getting 100% on his spelling tests ever since.  I even heard him say to another boy who was lamenting having to write the spelling words 5 times each, "Just do it my way.  It's tons more fun, and I learn the words too! Have your mom send an email!"

What this really brings up for me is the whole concept of homework in elementary school at all, but that's a post for another day.  Lord knows, as an educator who studies how the brain learns and effective pedagogical practices daily, I have a LOT to say on this topic.  Stay tuned for that, but for now, the message is that homework does not need to be the hassle that I hear parents complain about on the park bench or at the dance studio or karate studio.  It's a conversation that people are having constantly. 

While I'm not saying that teachers don't know what they're doing, and that you can make whatever homework assignment you want for your kids, you don't have to look at it as such a rigid, black and white task. I do believe that teachers have many legitimate reasons why they assign the homework they do, but in my experience, teachers are flexible, and what do they want really most of all?  They want their students to succeed--to walk out of their classes having learned something.  They're not homework pushers getting off on watching your kid suffer.  Talk to them.  Work out a solution that works for your family's quality of life and for your child's maximum learning.

The Presence of Children

I was at a meeting tonight in a school classroom where several vocabulary words were written on the board.  I was struck by the word, Presence.

Presence is one of those words that, when altered into its other word forms, has multiple usages and meanings. There's the "presence" in the room. It can be a person, a feeling, or movement.  There's the "presence" of attendance, the act of paying attention.  And then there's being "present" in the here and now--a sense of all else before or after having no significance compared to this moment. 

I was thinking of this tonight as I went in and checked on the children after they were asleep.  I want to capture each moment and live it exactly as it's supposed to be.  I know for most working moms (hell, for moms in general), the running and scheduling and sheer magic of keeping it all going everyday disallows for finding the beauty in any moment.  And for me, this means in all the taking care of my children, I forget to notice them.  They will only be 8 years, 3 months, and 18 days old once, and for this one moment, they are perfect.

I'm honing in on their presence.

Crunchity, crunch, crunch

Today's word is:  Crunch

I love the word crunch.  It's one of my favorite onomatopoeias. Crunch, crunch, crunch.

It's the sound my neck makes when I twist it just so.  Caramel corn crackles and crunches loudly in my ears when I'm at the movies.  Packed snow has a very distinctive crunch when it comes in contact with my boots.

Sometimes, though, crunch has a different meaning.  It's "crunch" time.  Oh, you know, that critical time when you cannot put "it" off any longer--whatever "it" is.  And I've only got myself to blame.  I get myself into this situation every semester.  I delude myself into thinking I have all the time in the world to finish something, but what I'm really doing is procrastinating, thus leading to crunch time.

And it's not just at work with grading papers or planning lessons, but it happens at home with the kids too.  Have you ever told your kids, "We're leaving in 5 minutes!" but then you go back and begin that bathroom scrubbing project that you've been putting off?  Then all of a sudden, "CRUNCH TIME." 

"Let's go, let's go, let's go.....!" you exclaim as if you'd been waiting all along and they were procrastinating.  I guess it's a learned behavior.

Or maybe crunch time is when your son comes out wearing the ratty, old underwear that he had when he was 3, that you can't for the life of you figure out why it's still in his drawer.  Then you run off to do the laundry.

Or maybe crunch time is the 15 minutes before bedtime that you try to squeeze in piano practice.  "If only she'd focus."

For me, I think I'm craving down time so badly that I tend to repress any actual work I have to do.  Maybe if I stop thinking about it, it will go away.....

How does crunch time manifest itself in your house?

Growing Up--The Anticipation Version

Today's word is:  Anticipation

I wonder what my kids will be like when they're grown?

My brother has two grown children--a 20-year-old who is a sophomore at the University of Washington, studying English (a girl after my own heart), and an 18-year-old who's kicking ass and taking names in the high school music world playing bass.  He's won awards all over the state of Washington and now is looking to pursue his musical aspirations in college.  I listen to my brother over the phone, and I can practically see his face beaming as he talks about them.  I can feel his proud parent moment, and I wonder if mine will be the same.

I was thinking about this today as I drove home from work during my 30 minute commute.  This is prime time, by the way, for feeding all my neuroses regarding how successful I am at raising my children.  Will my kids be as humble, as driven, as polite, as accomplished as my niece and nephew?  I don't know.  My husband and I are much different than my brother and sister-in-law.  She stayed home with them growing up.  My brother never missed a little league game.  They're conservative and not as permissive as DG and I are.  They live in the forest in the middle of nowhere, WA while we're in and out of Los Angeles on a regular basis.  Is this bad?  No.  Does our different experience mean that our children won't grow up equally as composed and mature as his?  I don't think so.  It's just different.  But I don't know for sure.

So I practice modeling my brother.  I try to offer my children the same kind of life that (forest living and no video games notwithstanding) their cousins have been afforded.

And I wait.

There are two dictionary definitions of anticipation:

1. previous notion; slight previous impression; realization in advance

2. expectation or hope

The latter is the common way I think about the word--I have a hopeful expectation that my children will turn out to be respectful and respected adults, pursuing their passions with a sense of confidence that comes from knowing that their parents support them emotionally forever.  The former is harder to pinpoint, but it's there.  There's an excitement in the not knowing that stems from the knowing.  I have seen these young people, my niece and nephew, whose upbringing I had a small part in by virtue of being related to their parents, and I know based on their histories, that my own children will follow their lead.  At least that's the way I'm anticipating it.  My children have their cousins to look up to, to aspire to emulate.

And I can't wait.

Inspired by Today's Word: Time -- or lack thereof

Oh sweet weekend, why do you have to be so fickle?

You tease me on Thursday night with the promise of hours and hours 
and hours and hours.

I can sleep in.  I can wake up early.  We're running, jumping, playing.
I am free, unencumbered by the meetings,
classes and responsibilities of work and family life.

I have all weekend to:

work on kid's science project
fold laundry
grocery shop and cook meals
grade papers


But you're a jezebel, weekend.  You promise, but you don't deliver.
Sunday night creeps into sight, a dark cloud of an impending storm blanketing
the earlier sunshiney landscape, with it a chill of inevitable change.

And then....the time is gone. Work week is on the horizon, Monday hammering
on the door. 

So, I'm on to you, weekend.  You can't pull this over on me again next week.
Next week, I'm gettin' fortified.

Pride

Today's word is Pride.

Not pride in the, "I'm so awesome," boastful kind of way, but rather, pride as in the "I did something that was overcoming an obstacle and I'm so proud I did it" way.

T2's been dancing the hula with a group for almost a year now.  She's a natural.  Man, I can't believe how she can move her hips.  I am filled with pride every time I watch her dance.  When she started, I would sit during the class and bring a book to read while it was going on, but I could never focus on my reading. I found myself mesmerized by the women in the group.  The dance looked so fun, and the music was infectious.

In November, I started dancing with my daughter.  I asked her first, if she thought it would be fun to have me in the group.  That we could do the dances together, practicing in the evenings.  She was thrilled by this concept.  Better grab onto this now, I thought.  She's going to be a teenager soon enough, and she would be mortified if I wanted to dance with her.  Now or never.  I thought, I've been watching for months; I can do this.  No way, y'all.  It's way harder than it looks.  It took me a while to get the steps.  The hands, hips, and feet all do different things.  While I'm not very good at it, I have a great time doing it.  It makes me feel so alive to move my body like that, a body whose image I've struggled with all my life.  I'm not the dancer type, you see.  Big and stocky, not long and lean like my daughter.  But hula--hula I can do.

And today was the big test of my confidence.  I danced with the group today for the first time in front of an audience.  Once the music started, I hit my stride.  I found myself beaming both inside and out. I was so proud of myself for going for something that I don't look perfect doing, but about which I feel very passionate. 

In the first clip, T2's second from the right.  In the second clip, I'm the tall, stocky one, next to the man in the back, and T2's the little girl on the right.  I'm thinking that this experience, for however long it lasts until one of us loses interest (T2?), is making a life long memory for T2 and I to share. 





I am proud.

The Sorrow of Doglessness

Twelve years ago, I lost my beloved German Shepherd mix, Scruffy, at 16 years old.

I stayed dogless for for a little while.  While I missed my sweet baby, I knew that getting another dog would be the cure for what ailed me.  I'm a dog person through and through, and I didn't feel right not having a dog.

I started researching breeds and fell in love with the herders.  Their quick brains and abilities were so intriguing to me, and I quickly became obsessed with getting one.  I started looking at Australian Shepherd rescues and breeders.  I knew I'd get an Aussie.  I went to the local Humane Society to let them know that I was looking for an Australian Shepherd, and if they were to hear of any coming in, would they call me first.  "We have one right now," they said, and before I knew it, I had my Aussie, a beautiful 3-year-old black tri that I named Jack.

We were inseparable.  I trained him and took him on long hikes in Griffith Park.  He needed extensive training and I was up for the challenge.  I took him to a party 10 days after I got him; there I met DG, who was immediately smitten with Jack, I think, much more than he was with me.  DG's love for Jack was part of what made me fall in love with him.  You know, love me, love my dog....  I knew DG would be a good father.

One day, when I was pregnant, we took Jack for a herding instinct test.  Put in a ring with Jack and a dozen sheep, it was truly a marvel to see him move them around, to do what he was bred to do.  I got choked up, just like I do now watching T1 master a complicated karate kata, or T2 on stage at any dance performance.  Jack was my first baby.

Things were pretty hard for Jack and me when the babies came home.  Have you ever seen that scene in "Marley and Me" where Jennifer Aniston, playing a mother with a newborn and a toddler, is home all day and her husband comes home and the dog goes nuts, knocking over the toddler, and she screams, with escalating intensity, "just get rid of the dog, GET RID OF THE DOG!!"?  We had a very similar beginning with Jack and the twins. 

On the night we brought T2 home from the hospital, Jack jumped in the crib with all four feet, all 60 pounds of him, dangerously close to the 5 pound twin.  It was more than I could manage; I was ready to call the Aussie rescue to find him a nice farm to run on forever.  DG was not ready to give him up.  We sent him doggie boot camp, and he came back a different dog, a dog that could be a part of our family, one that the babies could jump on and try to ride, and who would sleep outside their door while they were napping, and bark at any passing dogs, for fear they would try to get his "babies."  I'd strap him to the double stroller and trudge through the neighborhood.  One time, a driver stopped me and said, "Wow, if you can get out and walk with all that, what's my excuse?"  For me, Jack was the original recipient of my mothering.  He needed me just as much as I needed him.

Jack was almost 15 when we had to put him to sleep four weeks ago.  The vet said, after Jack had had 6 seizures in 12 hours, that he probably had a brain tumor, and he was fading fast.  I wasn't ready, although I knew it was coming.  I held him on that table, cradling all the bigness of him, as if he were an infant I was holding in my lap.  I thanked him for all he'd given me, how he changed my life.

So today's word is "sorrow." 

I have days when I won't remember him, and I think that his memory will fade eventually, and this fills me with sadness.  The sorrow that comes from coming home to the house with no dog will probably be with me for a while.  Until the sorrow of doglessness passes.