"i before e except after c." Weird.

This month, Son #2 has begun a real struggle with spelling. He began the school year with great 100+ scores, but he quickly lost interest. For a kid of his particular, um, let’s say “demeanor,” losing interest is a death knell. In fact, one particular spelling test prompted a Sunday afternoon phone call from his teacher to let us know that he had made a zero on the spelling test the week before because he made up letters and words for the entire test. She did let him retest, though we did wonder at the wisdom of that. Then again, we reasoned, grades don’t mean much to him anyway, so what difference did it make?

Anywho, since that fateful phone call, we have traveled the precarious and challenging road of making second-grade spelling fun. If you have a kid like son #2, you totally know that getting him or her to do anything he or she is not totally in love with is a painful, tear-jerking, exhausting, and downright awful experience.

I won’t even bring up the notion that, in my personal, yet-to-be-officially-in-print parenting and teaching handbook, spelling is a skill intimately akin to coloring and scissor usage. They are all very nice skills to have, but will they really make a difference in a person’s life to the extent that they deserve grand attention and hoopla? I think not. I didn’t think it in preschool when the boys got low marks in coloring, and I don’t think it now as we face this new spelling melee.

In an age of electronic devices and populating text boxes, spelling is an archaic skill. I would much prefer a child have critical thinking skills – an ability to analyze and figure that would benefit him as he approached a world full of problems to decipher, rather than a keen ability at rote memorization.

I can also see clearly now how our educational system takes such a one-size-fits-all approach when, in reality, one size does not fit all. We, girls, know this from shopping, and we also know that no one can really sell us something that doesn’t fit, unless we let them.

I digress…

Back to the spelling issue… I also struggle with the whole respecting-authority concern that arises here as well. I know spelling is stupid, and I know my son will figure it all out some day. However, I also know that he has to have an innate respect for teachers and other adults in authority. And so how do I teach my boys do to what is right if what seems right is really illogical and wrong?

Ugh.

As I continue to wrestle with these baffling questions of parenthood, I will leave you with a list of ideas to help your kids become better spellers – even though, as I list these, I cringe a bit at the extent to which I have gone for a topic I believe so little in:

First of all, there are some really good ideas at this teacher website: http://www.ilovethatteachingidea.com/ideas/subj_spelling.htm

www.spellingcity.com. Most schools use this website, and it does well to create games and other ways to teach the words to kids.

Son #2’s kindergarten teacher, whom I still see regularly and totally adore, suggested jigsaw puzzles. She said there was a connection between being able to do the mental tasks of puzzle connecting and being able to remember things like spelling words better.

Scrabble Cheez-Its. Use the crackers to spell the words. If a few get eaten, no harm, though Son #2 does like to eat the letters he doesn’t need on any given word. Just saying you may want to count this one as snack time. (We also use hard macaroni in math when we need something to count. The eating principle is the same though, so be sure to have extra on hand!)

Bath Tub Markers. I’m not convinced these markers are a great artistic medium, but they are a novelty. Again, you get a “two-fer” – a bath and a spelling practice in one. The “ink” does come right off, and they are easy to find in the bubble bath section of the store.

Magnetic letters and a cookie sheet. I found these letters at our local teacher store when Son #1 was having troubles with phonics in 1^st grade. These letters are flat and much smaller than the preschool fridge magnets everyone has, though I suppose those would work too. These fancy ones come with oodles of options so that you’ll never run out of e’s. Son #2 seems to really enjoy them, and this is a great activity for the car because they stay on the cookie sheet wherever you put them. Again, another “two-fer!”

Drawing pad app. You can get these on phones, e-readers, or anything with a touch screen. Son #2 loves to spell his words on the screen, using his finger as the pencil. Warning: This is a great tool, but it does come with a healthy distraction possibility. Son #2 often gets into drawing a picture and forgets entirely about the words.

Start on Friday. I’ve also started asking for the next week’s words on Friday afternoon so that we can study the words over the weekend.

The pièce de résistance… Drum roll please… The Dollar Store. Ta da… This week, I have promised Son #2 that, if his spelling test goes well, he can have anything he wants at the dollar store. (Note that this is a real dollar store, not one of those stores where they say they are a dollar store, but everything is $3 plus; everything in this store is a dollar.) He is totally stoked about this shopping trip, and, though I know the dollar store will also lose its luster for Son #2, I am happy to have a single week where he is excited about – or at least willing to endure – spelling.

Now, if I could just explain to him that extortion is perfectly okay sometimes, I'd have another parenting hurdle checked off...

Fashion Democracy

Since it appears that cooler weather may actually one day occur in West Texas, I spent part of Friday – my day off – shopping for jeans and longer capris. In truth, I began searching for super-casual t-shirts, but ended up in the jeans section. I know it was a bit masochistic of me, but there it is.  As Robert Frost wrote, “As way leads onto way….”

Anyway, I digress.

Eventually, as I searched the sand-blasted, acid-washed aisles of our local mall, it dawned on me that I am not emotionally or psychologically equipped to shop for jeans anymore – if ever I was.

I simply don’t like stretch, and that’s all jeans of the new millennia are; they are leggings with pockets. There I’ve said it. It is entirely antithetical to what the jean is all about to make it primarily of spandex. If your jean tags say anything besides “100% cotton,” you are deluding yourself with the label, “jeans.” You are really a fraction of a fashion skip away from Pajama-jeans, and, in truth, we really all know that it’s wrong to go there. Really. On so many levels.

But I will go here: I imagine that Levi Strauss would spend the rest of eternity whirling in his grave if he could see what modern man – and woman – has done to his opus, making his masterpiece stretchy, ripped, and abbreviated in such ways that only Barbie could really drive that zipper.

What happened to waist-high cotton denim? You all remember it – the legendary crop grown in the South that was eventually turned into Wranglers with a pre-starch stiffness that would allow them to stand on their own. I am not suggesting that I enjoy these brand-new, Wrangler-type jeans; in fact, I always hated new jeans as a kid because they did chafe a bit. At the same time, I LOVE what comes after that newness wears off – jeans that are worn, soft, and comfy after years of wear and laundering. Old jeans seem to totally fulfill that kinesiological theory of muscle memory; they have it, and they remember exactly where to give and where to hold in.

And this type of jean is authentic. Utterly genuine. The rips and tears and wear marks on them are earned, not engineered by some tiny woman in Romania. Like so many other things, man – and woman – is trying to emulate a process best left to nature.

I write all this only to ask, Do you know where I ended up on Friday as I shopped and philosophized? The men’s department.

Apparently, men are not as in love with spandex, legging jeans as a large portion of American women. They also don’t seem to love the tiny, elf-sized zippers, so, over there, I found 100% cotton, waist-high jeans.

I also found 38-inch waists and inseams that were a bit intimidating for a girl who’s had a clear 29-incher since junior high. Again, the essence of my being was not prepared for the beating it took that fateful Friday morning.

So, regardless of how you expected this story might end, know that I did not come home empty-handed. I am now the proud owner of two, brand-new pairs of shorts. Winter will just have to wait.

Celebrating 9/11!

Son #1 was born on 9/11. Here he is the next day:

Very soon after most people learn his birthday, they say, “The 9/11?” and I have to explain that, yes, he was born on the most infamous 9/11 in history.

September 11, 2001, began like a regular day for most of the world. My husband and I, on the other hand, spent this day – and the night before – in a labor and delivery room waiting for our son to arrive.  He was born around 10 p.m., so we spent the day watching the news; we even saw live footage of the second (north or south?) tower fall. It was an amazing, historical day for us and for the rest of the world. The nurses would come in and would stand amazed, watching our TV for a few minutes.

Here's Son #1 when he was a Scout in first grade. He's standing next to the 9/11 Memorial in our hometown. It was hard to explain why his birthday was written on the monument.

Many mothers have told me that they would have hated for their children to have had my son’s birthday, but I am so grateful for it. On a day when the rest of the world was mourning – a day the rest of the world still mourns – my husband and I found an amazing reason to be proud and happy – and hopeful. The rest of our country was horror-stricken, and we were facing the beginning of the most amazing ride of our lives.  As my doctor said months later, “[Son #1] was the only good thing that happened that day.”

This week, Son #1 completed his fourth week of the fourth grade. Since those thousands of people died, he has learned to walk, to talk, to read, to write, and to run and play like any adventurous boy. He has played little league, caught his first fish, mastered many a Wii game, and survived his first TAKS test. He has grown so much since that day – his first day – in September.

More than these things, though, Son #1 has been an astonishing reminder of God’s most valuable promise – a promise that does not guarantee only good times, but a promise that does ensure that there will always be reason to hope in the midst of any tragedy.

So, tomorrow, unlike the rest of the world, we will celebrate. We will eat cake, open presents, and sing, and we will rejoice in the first 10 years of Son #1’s life. More importantly, though, we will remember to never lose hope.

         

With a Y please...

So, we went to a family reunion last weekend. Here's what we looked like...

We're the cute quartet on the far left. The rest of the folks are branches on the same family tree. Only some -- maybe half? -- still share the same surname, but, regardless of their names, the sense of and loyalty to family is something that runs deep with this group.

I should mention that my cousin and his family aren't in this picture. They were totally present for the weekend's activities, but they had taken their girls back to the motel for a nap. (Secretly, I am a little glad they missed the shot; those 2 girls of his are so stinkin' cute... I doubt anyone would have noticed the other 65 people at all!!)

The old guy on the front row with the cap on his knee. See him? That's Uncle Tooter. So named because he was always such a "toot." Metaphorically, of course. Not literally. At least I don't think so...

Anyway, I enjoyed a time last weekend listening to him tell stories about my granddad and him as boys. He told about how they handled an unruly chicken one time; it was the equivalent of spy games boys today play -- you know... involved plans were hatched and traps were set. I think the story ended with yard bird for supper instead of huge explosions, but it's the same still. Really.

He also mentioned that Granddad didn't really like horses -- something I never knew. Funny how relationships keep developing and changing, even after people die. Weird.

Although maybe not. See, here's what this group used to look like when they got together...

Okay, not that exact group, but the people who beget the people in the first picture. Anyway, see the cutie patootie in the checkered dress and the really handsome guy on the back row, far left? Those are my grandparents. Can you believe it?

I have trouble with it -- with remembering them as young, vibrant people. I know they were more active when I was a kid, but the last few times I saw them, they were, well, old. Pictures like these and stories like the ones Uncle Tooter told... Those things make me remember that my grandparents were real vibrant people, not just always my grandparents.

Look at this one:

That's my sister, Dad, Granddad, and my Granddad's parents. I'm the chubby one in pink. Big surprise there; I could still be described that way.

Also, it was the early '70s, so excuse the eye wear.

Everyone has a hint of a smile. I like that. It's how families should be when they are together.

Jesus -- & other things -- in my heart!

In the last week, I have had about 439 ideas for blog posts, but, somewhere between the conception of the ideas and actually sitting down to type them, the ideas evaporate. Poof. My mind becomes a vacuum – a void of anything entertaining or witty. Instead, I am filled with the minutia of the first week of school: Which days do the boys need lunches made? Who is picking up whom and where? What should a kid wear to school when it’s 105 degrees outside but freezing in his classroom? Have we even picked up the mail this week?

I could go on, but you likely get the point.

I did type my self-evaluation today for my job at church. It was a new and wonderful experience – and a bit odd to include prayer and intense personal growth an important issue to review. Here’s one paragraph I included:

My ability to accept people as God has made them or grown them has become far healthier. Perhaps this skill improves when a person spends time with children: Kids have an amazing ability to accept everyone at face value, and children are not effective at hiding their own flaws. Such transparency grows acceptance and blessing, and it has done that for me.  At times, we all have to struggle to find an extra bit of Jesus in our hearts to love certain people, and, today, I know that this particular struggle for me is less demanding than ever before.  I know that we all are flawed, but still intensely and innately loveable.

In truth, the vernacular here was totally stolen. I have a friend who says of certain people, “I just don’t have enough Jesus in me for him/her.” It usually cracks me up, but somehow I missed that tone here. Maybe a good thing considering the audience. Maybe. Maybe not.

Without clear segue or transition, here are a few things I’m in love with today, in no particular order…

·        My Nook Color J. Total love and abandon here. Total.

·        Cool Brew Tea by Celestial Seasons + Liquid Stevia = a low-carb, fairly healthy version of paradise.

·        RSVP RT, ball-point pens. It’s the little things really.

·        My elder son who literally charts – Yes, on paper! – the contestants on reality TV shows.

·        My younger son who rarely agrees to write even his own name.

·        Pink. Enough said.

Next week will be the second week of school and the first days of September. Perhaps the promise of fall will inspire my blogging juices to flow.

Limpin' Along

Our pastor said, during his sermon today, that you should "never trust a person who doesn't walk with a limp." He went on to explain that times of crisis and struggle can lead people to closely examine themselves and their God in ways that times of ease and plenty cannot. The result of this weakness and suffering is a limp, perhaps not a physical one, but a limp of the spirit -- an obvious sign of suffering and persevering.

It's the whole theory of breaking bones... Where the bone breaks is often the place where it heals even stronger than the rest of the bone. This theory is true for us as well; we are often driven to our knees before we are able to rise stronger, wiser, and better for having suffered and struggled.

As thoughts will do, this thought tumbled into a mass of other thoughts, one of which reminded me of so many parents I know. On any given day, I will deal with all kinds of parents... Parents who cannot stand to be separated from their kids, even for just a 7-hour school day; parents who forget to pick up their kids on Wednesday nights; moms who worry about abuse and neglect to the point of distraction, dragging the rest of us along into their paranoia; and parents who don't even seem to take notice of their kids.

Parents come in all shapes and sizes, and, yet, for the most part, it seems that parents -- good and bad, but maybe all moms especially -- don't want their kids to suffer, to struggle. They hope that their children never get their hearts broken, their dreams dashed, or their beliefs challenged. They pray that life, for their kids, is easy.

I have to admit that I've been that mom, too. I've made teacher requests; visited classrooms; presented myself to teachers, principals and counselors on a regular basis; and talked to other moms about what are really the situations -- and symptoms -- of childhood. I have worked tirelessly to eliminate struggle and heartbreak from my boys' lives. I have. I have totally been THAT mom.

But today I got to thinking that the very things I -- and so many other parents -- are working infinitely hard to eliminate from our children's lives -- the suffering and the struggle -- those are the exact things that will make them the men and women whom we want them to be when they grow up.

I see all the time kids filled to their hairlines with entitlement. They believe they should be handed things on that proverbial silver platter -- things as easy as snacks and parts in a church musical to things as hard as popularity and eternal life. Kids, for the most part, believe that these things are as rightful to them as air.

It seems that parents like me -- THOSE parents -- may have created this sense of "It's mine!" in our kids. We have taken away their struggle, letting them believe that everything is theirs for the asking: All teachers are always great; childhood challenges don't exist; and problems with the principal are easily fixed. And then these kids grow up... They become adults. And they keep that idea of "It's mine!" They face troubles in the workforce, in relationships, and in the world at large.

So today, I began wondering if it's time for my boys to begin experiencing struggle and suffering of their own -- not front-row neglect or lack, but enough of a taste of what makes our world turn to prepare them for the rest of their lives. The good news is that I can do this now and be a safe, supportive place for them to fall when the world does indeed prove to be unfair. I can do that now so that they can face adulthood as men who are multi-dimensional, caring, delightful, empathetic, trustworthy, and just nice to be around.

Before today, I already had this notion in mind; I know I did, but I also know that, somehow today, explaining it became obvious. It became clear because I want my boys to be, well, interesting because of what they have suffered and struggled through. I want them to know deep in their bones that they can expect life to be unfair but that, above all else, they will be okay anyway.

So, this week, my mom prayer will be, "Dear God, please help my sweet boys learn to limp. Amen." 

Things I like now...

... that I unconditionally did not like as a kid, in no particular order:

V8. Two servings of vegetables per day in a pop-top can is somehow a delightful proposition at my current phase of life. I've also discovered that I genuinely like the taste -- Grey Goose and Tobasco notwithstanding.

Nap time. Enough said. Really.

Jalepeños. I especially find delight in pepper jack cheese, anything chipotle, and -- as a very recent discovery -- jalepeño bologna. As is likely obvious, my palate is not refined or picky, and, apparently, neither is my digestive track.

Brown. Since my truly formative years were basically the 1970s, I must admit that I used to be quite bitter and a bit nauseous about the color brown. As I was growing up, the world was bathed in brown and/or harvest gold -- from cars, polyester pant suits, and wood paneling to kitchen appliances, shag carpeting, and couches with brown and gold floral patterns. Bleee-eck. These memories conjur up horrible notions -- the likes of which jalepeño bologna never could.

So relieved was I to leave the oppressive darkness of '70s that I entirely embraced the cooler teals and peaches of the '80s; the southwestern trend of my pubescent years was a refreshing shift. Today, of course, 1980s design is about as appealing as cheap, motel art, and our current decade's design authorities  -- aka HGTV -- are morphing the old chocolate brown into warm, cozy cappuccino colors. They are matching brown with hot pink and even torquoise, and, suddenly, I'm loving brown. Loving. It.

Just, please... No harvest gold. Please.