Summer Challenge

Why do schools put parents in this position?  My middle kid, Doodle, is in an "advanced work class," for fourth grade (which he just finished) and fifth grade.  His teacher, who is one of those "tough but fair" teachers you mention in your valedictory speech, sent home a book list/math and reading comprehension packet to complete over the summer.  I've looked through it.  It's a lot of work. The kids in her class (she'll have the same kids next year) have to read four books -- three assigned, and one more off this giant list.

Just to give you some context, one of the books, Divergent, by Veronica Roth, was one I had put aside in my Amazon.com wish list for Boy to read over the summer. Boy, who is fifteen years old.  That book is on my ten-year-old's summer reading list, along with Agatha Christie's Murder on the Orient Express.

Seriously, you people?!  The kid is ten years old. I didn't read Agatha Christie until college, and I was a reading maniac.  (True fact:  the three or four times I  played hooky from school, I went to the public library and hid out in the stacks. No word of a lie.)  I was debating whether he was ready for the first Harry Potter book.


The kids started day camp today, and when I went to pick them up this afternoon, Doodle was curled up on the floor of the gym, fast asleep, using his beach towel as a pillow.  He could barely keep his eyes open during dinner.  (Which is how it should be.  All I ask of a good summer day camp is that they send the kids back to me dirty, hungry, and exhausted.)  And now I have to goad, coax, and cajole him into doing a page or two of math drills.  Doesn't really seem right, that.


It's not like I don't challenge them.  This summer's goal is for Doodle and Scooby each to read twenty-five chapter books (only two of them can be from the Captain Underpants series), at a dollar a book, and if they reach twenty-five, they get a ten-dollar bonus.  (Yes, I bribe my kids; I'm not too proud to admit it.)  Boy's challenge is to read twelve books, at two dollars each, with the same ten-dollar bonus. There's a bonus in here for me, too; it gives me an excuse to get them out of my hair when we go on vacation.  I'm looking forward to a quiet round trip drive to the Berkshires, and an equally quiet flight to Florida, with the children's noses deep in their novels for long stretches of time.  


I felt like that was a doable challenge.  Now, though, having looked at the summer work load for my fourth-grader, I'm tempted to become "Julie McCoy, Your Cruise Director," just to make sure the kid has some summer in his summer.  

Doodle's fine with all this work, though, or at least he's resigned.  The four reading list books will count toward my challenge, and at the same time I ordered them, I bought a third grade workbook for Scooby, just so he won't feel as though she's getting off easy.

And when he's done with those books, maybe I'll read them myself.  I'm sure my brain could use the exercise over the summer, too.

Suspended Animation

Nope, not dead.  Nope, haven't given up, either.

Life has been in a state of  "suspended animation" -- you know, that feeling you have when you've just thrown a bunch of balls up into the air, and you're waiting for them to come back down.  You don't know where they're going to land, or even if you'll be able to catch any of them.  You just keep looking up at the sky in equal parts expectant hope and dread.

I look back on the past few months and realize that, for all the running around like crazy, spending late nights to get everything done, more running, and panicking over dropped stitches, we've been extraordinarily blessed.   Our kids are well, we're healthy, and summer is underway.

So picture me standing under a cloudless sky, looking upwards, hands open.  I'm ready to catch those balls as they come down, and I'm not going to worry about the ones that get away.

Inspiration, Silenced

Oh, dear. Yet another blog post about Whitney Houston (1963-2012).

But it’s not about her slammin’ rendition of the “Star Spangled Banner” at the Superbowl, or the brilliant, ubiquitous “I Will Always Love You,” which, for some odd reason people used for their wedding song (did people even ever listen to the lyrics?). It’s not about her sad, slow decline into a drug-fueled, reality-TV train wreck. It’s not even about the heartbreaking knowledge that she was blessed with and squandered a once-in-a-generation instrument, like leaving a Stradivarius out in the rain.

It’s about inspiration.

It’s about her soaring voice pushing Olympic hopefuls to get up and try to be more than they’ve ever been, just once.

It’s about “learning to love yourself.”

It’s about sitting on a front porch with your (okay, fictional) sister (okay, yes, who wants to have you killed – come on, work with me here), and just straight up singing about how much Jesus loves you because you feel it and because He does.

I wish, I wish, oh, how I wish that Ms. Houston had been able to hear herself, to actually listen to herself – and be inspired.

RIP, Whitney Houston. Thanks for the inspiration.

You Do The Math

What a cool evening.

Boy was sitting at the kitchen table, last night, doing his homework. No, that isn't the amazing part. He had just cued up some music videos and was huddled over a worksheet when I cruised through the room. I tossed a glance over his shoulder and halted. At the top of the page, it said, "Algebra."

Now, I have to confess: math is not my friend. I use a calculator to do the simplest addition. I get cold sweats thinking about Doodle's fourth grade fractions. Math was the one subject in high school that I routinely flunked -- and I never took another math class once I graduated. (My liberal arts college didn't require it.)

But as I looked at the worksheet, I noticed that it was on equations, the "solve for x" kind. Oooh! I was actually good at those!

Most of mathematics defeated me. But there were a couple of topics that were less about the numbers and more about the logic. I rocked geometry, because it was like one long series of logic games. Prove a triangle is a triangle? Okay, no problem. I liked -- even loved -- those elegant proofs. They were like a dance, and once you mastered the steps, it was kind of fun. (To be fair, I also enjoyed diagramming sentences.)

Likewise, I could solve for x like nobody's business. I can do those, I said to Boy.

He looked at me skeptically, having heard (all his life) about my math allergy. Okay, he replied, do problem number four.

I snagged a pencil and gave it my best shot. I had fractions going on in there, ended up stumped for a moment on how to convert it to a decimal. Five point two, I said triumphantly.

Four point four, Boy answered, his deep voice just a shade away from condescension. No way. He whizzed through the steps and I saw he was right and I was so, so wrong. As my face fell, and I balled up the paper and threw it, hard, into the recycling bin, he offered, That's okay, Mom. You're good at English.

Well, now, them there's fighting words.

Give me another one, I said.

He raised his eyebrows and shrugged. Try the last one. I can't do it.

I looked. There were two xs in that one. I snatched another piece of paper and started in.

All of a sudden, it all came back to me. It was easy. X equals 6, I said. Boy gave me a comical look of disbelief. He replaced the x with 6, did the math in his head, and stared at me, shocked. That's right, he said, on the cusp of total incredulity.

I then did probably the most offensive booty dance in the history of ever to the hip-hop song that was playing on the computer. I got it riiii-ight, I crowed. Boy's expression said, Please stop. You're embarrassing me, even though there is nobody else in the room. Rev came upstairs to see what the commotion was about.

And then I wrote on the homework sheet, "Mom got this one right!"

Algebraic equations living somewhere in the recesses of my middle aged, math-phobic brain? Who knew?

X = 6.

Best. Night. Ever.

Revisiting That Bucket List

I’m sitting in my bedroom, jealously listening to the conversation going on in the living room. Rev is sitting very close to a PYT (for non-Michael Jackson fans, that means “Pretty Young Thing”), speaking in hushed tones. He’s been looking forward to this date for weeks. He left work early to get here, probably driving a little faster than usual to make it on time.

I’m not jealous because of PYT’s age, or the fact that she’s cute and funny, and did I mention cute? I’m not worried about anything “inappropriate.”

I’m jealous because Rev is learning something new.

PYT is a music teacher, and Rev is learning how to play the guitar. As in, how do you hold this thing and where do I put my fingers? beginner guitar lesson. He joins Scooby and Doodle, who have both been learning to play the piano for about nine months now.

And I’m jealous.

Oh, I already know the basics of guitar, having taken a year or two in grade school. If I picked one up, I could play along to a few songs, so long as you didn’t throw too many sharps or flats or major sevenths at me. I have no desire to become the next (old) Taylor Swift.

I’m just sitting here feeling sorry for myself, asking myself, What is the last new thing you learned how to do?

I was going to learn to speak Spanish. Never did. Ballroom dancing? Nope. I did start yoga, but that’s not really a skill you learn and master (unless you’re planning to make a pilgrimage to Tibet or something). For a hot second, I thought about taking voice lessons, to learn how to sing the right way. That died a quick death when I realized I would then have no excuses for not singing in public, or at least in the church choir.

How can it be that at forty-four, I’ve lost the ability, the inclination, to learn new things? What the heck happened?

Maybe I’ve become too complacent. Two years ago, just after my diagnosis, I went through the usual bucket list exercise: what are the things I wanted to do before I die but haven’t gotten around to? Because death, at that point, seemed real and imminent, no matter what imaginary statistics the oncologists pulled out of their . . . hats.

Now, I sit here, listening to the first, halting chords – and really, what courage it takes to put yourself out there in middle age to learn something completely new – I think about what I can learn to do in my spare time. I can’t think of anything that isn’t too time-consuming (spare time? Hah.), too expensive, too out there. I’m mad at myself for not having any interesting, pro-active hobbies. Even my resume is boring: I enjoy reading, writing, and listening to music. Snore.

Clearly, I have some soul-searching to do. What can I learn – I mean, really throw myself into – that can enrich my life? I don’t want to become one of those sour, provincial people who do the same boring stuff every boring day.

Because, if not now, then when? Tomorrow isn’t promised to any of us, and I don’t want to reach my sunset consumed with coulda-woulda-shouldas.

Everyone needs a mission. That’s mine, and, ask they say, I choose to accept it.

Stay tuned.

Paying Attention To The Voices In My Head

Most people don’t like how they sound in a recording. I read somewhere years ago that the voice you hear when you speak isn’t the voice other people hear, because the sound is somehow not traveling through the air when you hear it, but it is when other people do. Or something. Don’t hold me to that unscientific explanation. (Actually, Popular Science tells me that I’m right, sort of. Go, me.) The point is that when we hear our own voices on tape, it always sounds different – twangier, more nasal, whatever – than we thought it did, because the air acts as a kind of filter. I hate listening to the outgoing message on my voice mail, for instance. I sound like a dork who’s trying too hard not to sound like a dork. I long for the day when I can win a contest on NPR’s Wait, Wait Don’t Tell Me, and have Karl Kassel’s voice on my answering machine.

So, this week, I’ve been calling home more than usual. I’m on trial and working crazy stupid hours. I leave the house with Boy (to get him to the bus, because some things just NEED to get done trial or no trial), and coming home right at or after bedtime. So haven’t seen Doodle or Scooby for more than a hot minute for a couple of days. Yesterday, being the bad mother I am, I stopped off at a fast food joint to pick up dinner because, once again, I hadn’t had time or ingredients to pull anything together before I’d left that morning.

I dialed the house phone and this stranger picked up. The voice wasn’t quite feminine, and I didn’t recognize it. “Helloooo,” it said (which should have tipped me off, but didn’t), “who is this?”

“This is danablue,” I said, “who's this?”

“Doodle. Hi, mom.”

I was speechless. I stopped in my tracks, cell phone pressed to my ear. When did my little Doodle get a grown up voice (and impeccable phone manners)? When did he stop sounding like a baby? When did he stop being a baby? How can it be that he is old enough to answer a phone and have an intelligent conversation without constant prompting to say things? When did that happen?

This evening, I called home to say that I was on my way. Scooby answered, with a gruff, very corner office-ready, “Yes?” Her phone voice is a soft mix of Elmo the muppet and Marilyn Monroe. (Sure, I’ll wait while you put those two together.) I would never have expected my tomboyish, dress-negotiating seven year old to sound so in command of a telephone conversation.

I’m only just getting used to my six foot one teenager and his down-in-the-canyon voice. Seriously, put that kid on stage and girls will be throwing themselves at him. (Um. Okay, excuse me while I go clean my gun.)

So, I was just thinking about voices, and how, in my head, I still hear my kids as they were – those tiny, tinny little sounds that pierced through the hubbub of any crowd. But, in reality, I guess, my seven year old and ten year old aren’t little kids anymore, and they don’t have little kid voices. The other day, I was home for dinner and we had an impromptu joke-telling contest, where we had to actually make up a joke of our own. I learned that Doodle has almost mastered the art of deadpan sarcasm and Scooby is a gifted – and deadly accurate – mimic. I was completely diverted by the full throated guffaw the Boy let loose at one point, in the unguarded moment when he forgot that being silly with his family wasn’t cool.

I wonder how many other things I’ve been perceiving through kid-filters instead of hearing or seeing as they are. Maybe, for example, it’s time to have conversations with them, instead of always being in let me explain the world to you mode. Maybe I should ask their opinions every once in a while. One thing’s for certain: I aim to close my mouth, open my ears, and listen to hear their real voices.