Tuesday, February 1, 2011

A Funny Turn of Events


I usually enjoy Christmas shopping, but this year is different. Babysitters for our two-year-old daughter are scarce early December as a round of “Mac Truck” flu rolls through the local high school. My husband has been working out of the area so I’ll have to shop when he is home on weekends.  
Saturday morning arrives with a fresh blanket of snow, icy roads and a forecast for more. 
“I kiss my new sister, Mommy!” My little angel kisses my bulging tummy and I know she’s going to have a great day with her daddy and grandparents.
List in hand I head out in the direction of the malls, hoping the parking lots are plowed and that I’ll be able to fulfill Amy’s wishes.
By noon, with less than half the list accomplished, I wheel the shopping cart to the car through the snow that’s fallen since I arrived.  While cleaning the snow off, I decide to try Dartmouth.  Not a good choice today!  An accident on the bridge ties us up for over an hour – and I’ve got to get to a bathroom!  
By four thirty, most of the gifts have been bought.  My tired feet and swollen ankles that have supported me as I’ve visited the bathroom at least once in every mall are screaming to stop!  I still have to find a soft-bodied baby doll with brown hair (Amy’s number one wish from Santa), and trudge to yet another toy store.  Success at last! 

Lugging the last of the parcels into the house, I’ve got to go to the bathroom again.
Is that the phone?  I haven’t even gotten my coat off yet.
I glance at the clock – 5:20 pm. I’ve got to get supper started. 
 I’m almost hoping it’s a suppertime telemarketer.  I feel the need to vent, so he’s going to get an ear full.  Yes, I’m just in that kind of mood.
“Hello?” I’m sure the caller can hear the intended tone of disgust.
“Oh Pat!  You’re home!  I’m at the gas station” I hear my husband, panicked.
“What’s the matter?”
“I left the keys in the car when I got gas and Amy’s locked the doors. I told her to pull up the button, but she’s just smiling at me.  You’re going to have to bring me the other set of keys!”
I can imagine her darling smile, waving her little hand at her daddy, throwing him kisses.  She doesn’t understand that the button she’s pushed locks the door.  Oh, I bet she’s driving her daddy over the edge. I can’t help but laugh to myself at the inane situation.
As calmly as I can, I answer him, “Honey, tell her to roll down the window.”
There’s an ever so brief silence on the other end of the phone, followed by “click”.  Smiling to myself, I dial the local pizza delivery number, before running to the bathroom.



Toilet Training In a Day....

I’ve just recently found out that I’m pregnant – again!  This will be number 3 and we have not yet recovered from our second daughter’s colicky start to life 18 months ago.  She still sleeps less than 8 hours on any given day and has boundless energy.  She’s a bright youngster with an ever growing vocabulary and an insatiable thirst for taking things apart – clothespins to cassette tapes, .
Being the super efficient mother that I am – after all, I am now 26 years old with two university degrees and two children – I know it all and will prove it, too!  A dear friend has loaned me her book “Toilet Training in 24 Hours” and I’ve read it from cover to cover.  It’s a scientifically based method of training your child at the optimum age of 18 months.  Lucky for me that I got my hands on this just at the right time!  My plan is that tomorrow, my husband will take our eldest daughter out for the day – some wonderful “together” time for them and I will toilet train Lindsay.  It’s that simple.  I have boxes of chocolate rosebuds that she loves so much, the family potty chair with the flip up lid and a cute dark haired doll that has a hole for the “pee”.
The day has arrived.  Weather is glorious for Dad and daughter number one to set off on their adventures.   Unbeknownst to Lindsay, Mom has an adventure planned for her today. ..  OK first things first:  explain to the child what you are doing and why, followed by removal of her diaper.  Done.  Next, give her a drink as noted in the book.  Show child how to “feed” the doll, doing so over the potty chair in order to view stream of “pee”.  Done.  We pretend to give the doll a rosebud with each success.  Lindsay then pops each in her mouth and smiles with delight.  We practice this at least a dozen times then I am instructed to take her outside for some playtime.  This diversion, the book tells me, is going to enable her to come back to the doll and not only remember what the doll does, but will apparently be able to transfer this knowledge to herself…hmmm.  OK, if the book says so, it must be true. 
So out we go to the swing set, but Lindsay has a mind of her own and wants to play in the sandbox.  With all those drinks in her, I wonder doesn’t she have to pee now?  I should have listened to my gut because she pees while trying to climb over the side.  She puts her hand out and says, “Wosebud, peese.”  Yes, she’s getting part of the picture…
After cleaning her up, we return to the task at hand.  Lindsay takes the baby bottle and “feeds” her doll.  She giggles with delight at the stream going into the potty chair and grabs another rosebud for the doll. 
“Lindsay, you can do this too.”  She has a puzzled look on her chocolate smeared face. “You can sit on the potty and pee, just like your big sister and mommy!  You don’t have to wear a diaper anymore!  Isn’t that great?” 
“No way, hosey!” is her reply and I’m deflated on the floor, holding dolly.  I eye the book and wonder if my friend’s success was a fluke…
Three months later Lindsay runs down the hall and hands me her diaper.  “Yucky, mommy.” 
“Well, if you’re not going to wear a diaper, you’ll have to use the potty.” 
“OK, hosey!” she exclaims. 
And that was the last diaper she ever wore…

Tie My Shoes

Can learning to tie your shoes really be this difficult?  This little girl is three years old!  She’s bright and is learning independence.  She’s the one who asked me to teach her how to tie her shoes…
“Let’s try this again.  Make a loop like this.  Take the other lace and wrap it around like this.  Pull this loop through and TA DA!”
With chin jutting forward and total concentration Alice attempts yet again. 
“Oh, I just can’t get this to go right mommy.”
After several repeats of this scene, we decide it’s time for a well-deserved chocolate chip cookie.  Daddy arrives.  His schedule takes him away from home from Monday to Friday, so Alice is as excited as Tomcat when he hears the Friskies being shaken.  I’m pondering the value of Velcro fasteners…
“Daddy, Daddy!” she gives him a hug around his knees.  He sweeps her off the floor, kisses her check. “I can’t tie my shoes!  I’m really trying.  It’s hard.”
“Let’s try it again”, he suggests and I watch from the sidelines.  He sits behind her just as I did.  How does he know that’s exactly what I was doing?  OK…I’ve got to watch this. 
“Make a loop like this.  Take the other lace and wrap it around like this. Pull this loop through and TA DA!”
Chin is jutting forward, total concentration and yes, we have success!
“Look!!  Look!!  I did it.  Thank you Daddy.”
My heart is swelling in my chest – my baby’s learned to tie her shoes.  Another milestone attained.  Hold it.  Wasn’t I doing the same damned thing? 
With Alice still engrossed practicing her newly found ability, I asked what he’d done differently.
“That’s easy.  You’re left handed.”

Poem for December 23 PD



T’was two days before Xmas and all through the school
Not a student was stirring, only us fools.

Sticky notes were hung by our computers with care
Desks that were tidy would soon disappear.

The children all home snuggled in beds
While visions of Black Ops danced in their heads.

Mary and Kim lay dreaming in bed
As visions of Kyle, Mitchell, Robert, Cory, Cody, Meka,
Matt, Connor, Julia, and so on, danced in their heads.

Their fingers were numb from suspensions they wrote,
While thoughts of what they’d like to say stuck in their throat.

Each in our classroom, and Mary in office,
we all settled down before PFI got us.

Then out of one ear I hear such a clamor
I rose from my desk to see what’s the matter.

There was Kim, with bells on her toes,
and so help me god up the chimney she rose.

Away to the window I flew in a flash.
And screamed at Kim “Where the hell’s your stash?”

To my amazement on the roof there appeared
A funny little guy sporting a grey beard.

I heard him say:”Kim, get off my roof! 
You know the chimney’s not fire proof!”

Down the chimney he fell not making a sound
Until, of course, he got to the ground

His body was bruised and his beard was now black,
And to our wonderment, passed out Prozac.

With pleasure we swallowed it down, our sorrow did drown
Watching that little guy lay on the ground.

Now that we know that St. Nick is real,
We can all
sit here through this ordeal!!!!!

We know that in time this will come to pass
There will be a PFI of a different class.










Class Housefly


Darting, parting the air
Zipping between desks
Creating havoc
The students are wrecks


Drinking in all actions
With those bulging eyes
Nothing escapes him
His mind flies


Buzzing, constant buzzing
Droning out our thought
Peace is not to come
Cannot be bought


Never to light on any thing
He is sent to the office,
 Packing.



The Jewel of my Garden that Doesn’t Glisten



Why am I taking this course?  I don’t have an artistic bone in my body and as classmates are responding to the question of what form their art project will take, I’m queasy querying myself.  I know I don’t paint, write, draw or capture an artistic photograph.  Oh God, what am I going to answer?  Words spew out of my mouth – I answer with the most obvious artistic ability I have: sewing.  I’m going to make a rag mat.  Now I’m committed – or maybe I should be committed.  Dear God, I’m going to be graded on this…

The idea came to me from my friend Heather who, although extremely talented with a piece of fabric and a sewing machine, labored for weeks making knots and untying them over and over again.  She gave me her first attempt at the art of making a floor mat from leftover scraps of fabric with a sigh of relief as she thanked me for my encouragement during her “ordeal”. 
“Here, this is for you, Pat.  It will go well in your kitchen.”
“Thanks!  Are you sure you don’t want to keep it for the cottage?  It would look great in the front porch. You put so much time and effort into this…”
“Are you nuts?  Every time I look at it I’ll see the mistakes and remember how many hours it took to get it to look like a mat.  Ha. Maybe I should keep it just to remind myself never to make another one.”

The professor thinks it’s a great idea and expounds on textile art.  I’m in a fog, listening but not processing.  I’m going to have to call Heather when I get home tonight and get the pattern for those mats.  What fabric do I have?  Sheets in the linen closet – this will be a good way to go through the old sheets and tidy up that closet at the same time.  Maybe it’s not such a bad idea after all…

Heather laughs at my asking for the instructions and gives me the website address for the rag mats.  She’s still laughing while asking me how I can get a credit for a Master’s level course by making one of those damned things.
“Heather, this isn’t funny.  I have to make something for this course – do something I’ve never done before.  You know, sort of stretch myself and get to know the process.”
“Why don’t you knit something?  Or make a christening gown?  Hey, I know!  Why don’t you finish that quilt I’m making for my niece’s wedding?”
“She was married last year and I already did some of that for you.  She’s going to be a grandmother by the time that’s done!”
“No, but she may be divorced by the time I finish it!  Good luck with the mat – remember to be patient with it.”

Heather tells me how to rip the sheets while I’m waiting for the instructions to arrive.  I collect scissors, ruler and my daughters’ childhood bed sheets of pink, yellow and green.  I’m going to create a rag mat of memories for each of them – the first for my eldest daughter who will appreciate my toiling at this project to make something she will enjoy for years to come. Yes, she will understand the memories it will evoke and the love that went into its creation. 

Measure, rip; measure, rip. Pick up the stray threads and pitch them. Lay the long thin strips in piles sorted by color.  Now, read the instructions and study the drawings.  Take out the toothbrush needle and practice those knots.  Finally, I’m ready for the mat – and actually looking forward to it. I should have realized at that point that this project was doomed…

Documenting the process is required and my husband, John, obliges by taking pictures.  Thank heavens he takes close ups of the stages rather than getting the expression on my face – laughing hysterically or in tears, neither would have been appropriate for presentation to the class.

By the sixth or seventh row, I know there’s a huge problem when John asks,
“Is the mat supposed to be rectangular?”
“Yes, here’s the picture on the front of the instructions.”
“Pat, you’ve got a problem…” and he holds the work up. 
“What the heck’s going on? Did I miss some knots?  That’s really crooked.”
“Let’s try to stretch it,” he suggests and we try to no avail.  Some of those knots are tighter than a teenage girl’s spandex pants.  They’re not moving, so I rip every last knot out for rows and put the whole thing away.  I can’t possibly do this.   

Several days later the mat is out again and we’re still snapping pictures and trying to loosen up on the tension.  In the meantime, I’ve gone back to knitting dishcloths in order to practice that very skill – tension.  Now if I could just loosen up the tension in my neck, shoulders and mind… and I hear “Ah, Pat’s mat is looking like …a girdle?  a wig worn in the British parliament?  a baby sling?”  All these suggestions have us in gales of laughter until I decide that’s enough for tonight.  Let’s try again tomorrow…

My fellow students discuss their projects’ progress and express some misgivings and much enthusiasm.  Dear God, what am I going to tell them about my disaster?  It’s coming, I explain.  Yes, there have been problems but nothing that can’t be overcome.  I’m living and breathing the process…but not for long (please God inspire me)!

The mat grows longer and not as wide.  And then it grows longer and wider.  Finally I know that enough is enough.  The dimensions aren’t close to what the instructions call for but I am pleased with the colors and pattern of the “thing”.  I call my husband and daughter into the kitchen to look at it.  With puzzled faces, they suggest possible uses…and again, we’re doubled over with tears in our eyes.  But I’m not crying just from the laughter – I have to present this to my classmates!  We have put hours into its creation, toiled with problems, attempted to find solutions and still have no idea what it’s going to be…but then again, then again, there may be a way to salvage this mat as a mat.  My husband’s purse idea comes to mind and I fold the mat and show them both that this could possibly become a “Garden” mat.  They want to know what I mean and I explain that when you’re out in the garden you need to have something to kneel on.  This, doubled over with the edges sewn together would be perfect.  If I leave the top open and attach a strap, I’ll have a “Garden Mat/Carrier” for carrying tools of the trade.  Trapezoid in shape, there’s enough to kneel on without any surplus to get caught up around you.  AHA!  They nod in agreement, sure that I’ve lost my mind…

During our next class, for the first time, I can honestly say that I’ll have a completed project – not a rag mat, but something much more interesting!  (Please God; bless them all with an extra helping of humor!)  Work on the presentation will be so much easier than the construction because I know I “get” it now – this process is one of letting go of pre-conceived notions and just being free with creation.  Not knowing what the outcome will be can be exciting – when you don’t worry about what other people think!

We choose a contrasting material for the edging.  First the bottom is sewn together, followed by the two sides. I edge the entire open top portion and knot together a strap for carrying.  I put in a small spade, trowel and a pair of garden gloves.  Pictures are taken – this time full face, smiling.  Now we’re ready for class…

Presentations are exciting, aren’t they?  We are instructed to discuss our process along with our project and we are in awe of the talents shown: an exquisite oil painting done by one who worked with her mother (she had us in tears), a fabulous meal presented by another who had produced a cookbook and discussed the actual dinner parties where she had experimented with different cuisines, a baby quilt lovingly stitched by hand to be finished when she met with her grandmother who was an expert quilter, a wonderfully written account of one’s experiences as a substitute teacher.  Again, I’m queasy – mine isn’t nearly as good as these.  Well, I hope they see that I’ve worked through the problems with this “thing” – please God, let them have a sense of humor!

The presentation is going very well – I notice I am breathing normally now.  They’re asking to see it!  Oh my God, one of them wants the pattern?  Why?  What do you mean, will I make you one?  No, I couldn’t….thanks for asking, but you just don’t understand.  This is a one of kind “Rag Garden Kneeler/Carrier”….I don’t have the patience to remember how to screw it up exactly the same way a second time!  But I will get you the instructions and you can try it for yourself – the process is what you need to experience because there is truly nothing like living it, and loving it.



Lunch With a Friend

I know this building
Once a pharmacy, now a restaurant
Centered door in south storefront windows
Light flooding in

I know this building
Wooden tables for two or four
Linens forfeited, paper napkins
Warmth all round

I know this building
Front counter now for cash
Rear dispensary now a bar
Pale green serenity

I know this building
Salad and fish home made
Sharing stories and laughs
Memories make us smile

I know this building
Stepped over the threshold
First time today but I’ve
Stepped back to childhood

I know this building
Dad mixing and measuring
Dispensing prescriptions
Filling his need to help

Thursday, January 6, 2011

The Joy of Babysitting

            "Mrs. L wants you to babysit tonight," Mom said.
My Fry boots squish the leaves that October night.
Friends are playing basketball as I ring the doorbell.
Mark's busting a gusset and wants to show me a card trick.
This red headed eight year old is a live wire.
Cookie crumbs cling to his chin.
"Will you read to me? Pleeeease?" he asks.
He's back so fast I'm out of breath.
"What have you got there?" I ask.
Those impish eyes hold a secret.
Playboy magazine.

Situations for Anger Management students to discuss/act

JOEY

Joey is a 12 year old who has just started grade 7.

After school last week, Joey and his younger brother, Josh, were in their backyard playing with their squirt guns.  They are having a great time until 10 year old Josh squirted Joey in the face – and accidentally hit Joey in the head with his gun. 
Joey is angry and raises his hand…
Josh is scared and runs into the house….







BILLY

Billy is a 14 year old in grade 9.  He has an older brother, Robert, who is 16 and a younger sister, Stephanie, who is 12.

While walking home from school yesterday, Billy hears a bunch of girls laughing.  Rounding the corner, he sees them huddled around something on the sidewalk.  They don’t see him coming and he yells out, “Hey! What are you laughing about?”
The girls run off in different directions and Billy sees Stephanie - sitting, crying, and blood on her lip.
“What the hell?” he asks.
“They hate me.  They say my hair is too short, my nose isn’t right and my eyes are too close together.  I’m ugly!”  She sobs.
Billy thinks to himself as he helps Stephanie up, I’ll get them.  They’re gonna be real sorry. They’ll be ugly…Maybe Robert will help me….


MICHAEL

Michael is 13 and in grade 8.  His parents separated last year and are now going through a divorce.  He and his 6 year old brother, David, live with Mom during the week and with Dad on the weekends. 
At breakfast this morning:

“Hey Mom!  Tommy and Dylan are coming over after supper and we’re gonna play ‘CALL OF DUTY’.  OK?”

“Not tonight, Michael.  You know I’ve got to work late today.  I reminded you yesterday.  You’ve got to watch David and you know the rule about not having friends over when I’m not here.  Why don’t you ask them to come over tomorrow night?”  Mom explains.

“But Mom!  We already made plans.  I don’t care about these rules.  We don’t have these rules at Dad’s.”

“Sorry, Michael, but tomorrow night you could invite them for supper. I’ll pick up pizza.”

Michael glares at his Mom, grabs his backpack and stomps out the door…..

 





Snow Days

As a teacher, I wear many hats:  mentor, mother, psychologist, nurse, doctor, psychiatrist, chauffeur, coach, secretary and confidante….but I didn’t think I was a babysitter.  Yes, it irritates me to no end to think that I have two undergraduate degrees, a master’s degree, and will have a second master’s degree within the next few months – to baby sit?  I think not!
Have you read the 16 page discussion paper on School Storm Days in Nova Scotia?  It was commissioned by the NS Department of Education following the 2008-09 winter where NS School Boards cancelled school for an average of 9 days.  To be fair, I must admit that the Tri-County Board had a low of only 3 days lost to storms whereas the Chignecto-Central Board had a high of 12.  Questions posed by the public apparently warranted this study at God knows what cost to taxpayers.   They (obviously all parents of school aged children) were frustrated by having to make alternate arrangements for their children at 6 in the morning.  They were asking why a board would close schools when the general public would have to report to their jobs.  They also wondered why teachers would get the day off – shouldn’t teachers report to work?  After all, they had to. 
The author, a respected local educator, has certainly done his homework.  He’s interviewed superintendents from local school boards as well as several in New Brunswick, Prince Edward Island, Newfoundland, Quebec and Ontario.  There are numerous, well laid out tables with bolded notes – data that even a fifth grader would understand.  (There’s another topic to rant about at another time.)  He looks at data over 3 decades in an effort to legitimize (?) the topic.  Environment Canada was consulted to supply “Normal Average Winter Temperatures” to compare Truro data with that of Sherbrooke, Quebec.  Again, you don’t have to be much smarter than a fifth grader to realize that here in NS; we have a maritime pattern as compared to the steady cold of a more northerly clime.  After all, don’t we all know the local saying: “If you don’t like the weather, just wait 5 minutes and it will change!”   So I guess I’m expected to add weather forecasting and highway maintenance to my list of duties?  Give me a break!
Nova Scotia added 5 days to the school year back in 1971 in order to compensate for lost time due to storm days.  I wonder if the public realize that NS has the longest school year in North America?   US schools have 180 days and the number varies in Canada from a low of 178 to 195 here in NS.  Why wasn’t that mentioned in the paper?  If they expect us to report to school when it’s cancelled for students, then we should expect the school year shortened by those 5 days.
 Our collective agreement with the Dept. of Education lays out what is expected of teachers – they are not expected to report to school on storm days.  OK?  That’s our legal right.  As a mother of two daughters working for the NS Government in downtown Halifax, I’d like to add that they also have had storm days where they were told to “work at home” due to the inclement conditions.  Some of those days, I had to go to school because there were no cancellations for us!  Employers I’ve spoken with understand winter weather conditions and allow their employees leeway on this topic.  I noticed the paper didn’t include information on anyone losing their jobs or other undue hardships suffered because of school cancellations.
Schools stay open in the Durham Region in Ontario when busses are cancelled.  It’s up to the parents to decide whether to send their children.  The paper states that Durham experiences very low attendance for the “first few” storm days followed by increases in attendance as the number of these days increase.  What the heck???  On page 3 of this paper we see, in the easy to read data table, that HRSB’s average number of school closures since 1996 is 2.9 days.  On heck, let’s round that up to a whole number - 3.  I’ve been at school many a day where the busses have been cancelled and our attendance was less than 10%!  If I could get my hands on our board’s attendance records for those days, I think it would be safe to say that most schools found the same thing!  And we never see the students who need the extra help we could give them – oh no.  Their parents let them sleep in!  The few who do attend are the ones who are the academic stars – those who feel they’ll “miss” something if they don’t attend.   Well, well, well…. Our board’s directive is that outcomes are being worked on in EVERY class – therefore, teachers have to give these attendees extra work…that those who are home in bed won’t be responsible for.  Yes sir, we’re babysitting all right!
So, what does the paper recommend?  Among other things, it states that perhaps Boards should pursue talks with all staff on how to best use these storm days.  If school is cancelled, it suggests that principals have readied materials for on-site PD sessions.  That’s fine and dandy, but what if you live far from your school and can’t physically get there?  Should they look at having teachers report to the nearest school?  Or, maybe, they could have us work at home as other private sector and other government agencies have their employees do.  Wouldn’t the students be better off staying home for the day where parents know they are safe?  Wouldn’t teachers be better off staying home and getting that programming planned or assessments accomplished?  Then again, who would provide baby sitting care?




Today's Fools

Don’t you just love the word “nincompoop”?  Early in October I read an interesting article in the Chronicle Herald.  Written for today’s parents, the question posed was, “Are we raising a generation of nincompoops?” 
Every generation says the same thing about its children – they are lazy, no good, disengaged, disinterested and, of course, not very bright.  We say these things about our children just as our parents did about us.  No matter if you are 30, 40, 60 or 80, you know exactly what I’m talking about and are probably nodding your head.
What is a nincompoop anyway?  By definition, it means “fool”.  Were we fools as we grew up?  Were our parents fools when they were growing up?  What about our grandparents?  If we were really fools, how did we lose that status and become “informed” or rational people?  Was it fools who sent a man to the moon or discovered a cure for polio?  And why is it these fools can program my phone but I can’t.
The answer is very simple.  We were taught the things of life that we needed to know from the adults around us – parents, teachers, grandparents.  We absorbed knowledge through books, television, music and our friends.  We learned, as every generation before us, what we had to know to survive in our world.  And today’s children will too – eventually.
The article uses everyday examples to support its claim.  It states that today’s children are able to tell time solely in digital format and depend on Velcro closures to do up their shoes.    I’ll give you a personal example from a typical classroom: 
“What time is it?”
 “Look at the clock on the wall.  What time does it say?”
“I don’t know.  I can’t tell that kind of time.”
And I shake my head.  What I could do is stop whatever lesson I’m trying to teach and use this opportunity to teach time with an analogue clock.  Obviously, they are still used and therefore there is merit in teaching this… But the outcome we’re working on has to be taught and assessed.  No time to deviate from the plan.  So, I tell the time because it’s easier. 
A single mother of two preschoolers has to be organized.  As she tries to rush out the door early in the morning, getting the children ready to go is an act she has fine tuned to a science:
“Matthew, please sit still!”
“Mommy, I want to zip my jacket myself!”
“You’re only 3 years old, sweetie…there’ll be time to learn that later….”
Who’s the nincompoop now?