School Started! School Started!

It seems to me that there are two kinds of back-to-school reactions: The Crier and the Cheerer (you can vote on which one you are here.)

I am mostly a cheerer. I love my kids, but we all do better with the rigorous school schedule. My kids are the same way. Three years ago, E.G. was so angry with me for not taking him to Kindergarten that I had to drive him to the empty school to prove to him I wasn't deliberately keeping him from his education. This year, Proximo starts Kindergarten and he is similarly excited to bust outta this joint. I will cheer, cry, and sleep when they're both in school starting next week. Oh, and work. It will be just me and the baby, refusing to answer the door when random people show up, writing during naptime, and enjoying a house that stays clean longer than 5 minutes.

Today is officially the third day of school, but the first where I "served" cold cereal for breakfast. Proud of myself for making it three whole days. Also proud of myself for forgetting to take pictures of my departing child in absolutely no new clothes. Let's not get too weepy, I'm pretty sure I'll remember to take a picture of him at some point this year. Maybe.

It's Joe's back-to-school time, too. He marooned me with these three people to teach the Future of America. He's been prepping for the school year all summer, and recently started meeting with parents and new students in anticipation of his harder classes. Which is where this conversation happened:

"Well, Mrs. So-and-So, I know I just met you, and after talking with the other teachers this seems crazy, but on this paper is my email and number, so if you need to, call me, maybe."

The mom thanked him without a clue and the daughter did an eye-roll facepalm. Your tax dollars at work, people.

Lulu has been cutting teeth for the past two weeks, turning me into a zombie with her midnight, 3am, and 5am blood-curdling wakings. It's been a good time. Only four more years until she's in school, too.

Perhaps I should see if someone is selling some sentimentality and pick some up? Also, extra emotional tears? Because I'm not sad about school starting, not one little bit.

How to Keep Your Child From Failing Math

Don't let the title scare you!

When I tell people that DH is a math teacher I get a couple reactions, from admiration to the more common confession that they are terrified of math. I know many of you struggle to help your kids, and even wonder how you can keep them doing well in math as they progress.

The first thing I'd tell you is to stop telling yourself that you're "bad" at math. It would be unacceptable for you to go around telling people that you're "bad" at reading, "bad" at writing, and "bad" at driving. You keep that to yourself, because just like negative body image, your kid will pick that up right away.

The second thing that we see is preventable; it's something so simple, so basic, that if you make sure your kids knows it, they will be equipped to handle the math coming down the road...story first:

DH had a long conversation with a parent recently, a parent who was extremely upset at him because their child had 100% on all their math homework, yet scored 25% on the tests. The parent was furious, demanding an answer from him on why their child was failing despite having perfect homework.

DH pulled out the homework; it was full of correct answers--answers...but no work shown. He said he didn’t want to accuse any student of cheating when there’s always room for divine intervention--intervention that happened to desert the child during tests. So, DH made an offer: if the child could set up a problem from any of the homework, not solve, just set up the work, he’d be happy to grant the child an “A.” The child burst into tears. The parent soon grasped the picture.

What’s more, DH said, can you tell me what 7 times 8 is? The child thought for a few minutes and answered “42” then after another minute “56.” Here’s the problem, DH said, you never learned your times tables when you were supposed to, and I bet that every teacher after that allowed you to use a calculator until now, is that right? The child nodded. I suspect that you and your child will have a different type of summer activity planned soon, DH said to the parent.

So how do you help your kids with math, even if you feel inadequate to do so? The very first step is to make sure they have memorized the addition and multiplication tables. Every double digit addition and subtraction in their head. Every multiplication and division in their head. They should be able to answer instantaneously, with zero lag time. They should be able to do this by the 4th grade. If your child can't, you know where to start. Your kid should also be able to to count up to the 12th multiple for the first 12 counting numbers--i.e. 12, 24, 36, 48, etc, all the way up to 144 and back again without an “uhm” or a breath.

How do these things help? Instead of trying to figure out how the numbers all fit together, your kids will be able to concentrate on the problem in front of them. If you can make sure your child knows their tables they’ll be prepared for the advanced stuff. You would not believe how many kids reach high school without basic addition, subtraction, and multiplication--it is the fundamental root of so many kids failing math.

Now you know. And you can prevent it.

Dispatches From the Bread Line

This is a hard post to write.

For the second time in a year I find myself without a regular work/job type thing. Sure, the “economy is bad” and “times are tough” but those are for other people, not me and mine, right? I shouldn’t be under that delusion anymore, but it’s still hard to accept. We’re trying to figure out ways to cover the bills and it’s getting tight. I know deep down that everything happens for a reason, and that things fall apart so others can fall together; it’s just a little heart-stopping in the mean time.

I think the last time this happened, back in March of this year, I was in a far worse place. Not only had I lost my job of three years, but my mother had been diagnosed with a virulent cancer (that happened on the same day, in the same hour, by the way.) I was a mess. I’m not a mess this time (at least not yet.) My mom is doing well. I’m grateful that I was able to find work relatively quickly and that I got to work for a great company for the past six months. I felt impressed when I considered taking the offer that I should take it, but that that job would be short term. Since most of my employment life has been measured in years, I was a little shocked when it turned into months, although I probably shouldn’t have been.

I’m definitely trying to fight the feeling of fear with the feeling of gratitude. I know we’ve been placed in our home for a reason, although it’s been a struggle to fit into our neighborhood. We have wonderful friends and family who buttress us. My husband does important work, work that really does change the world, I wish with all my heart it was enough to support us. I’ve heard that there are women out there that demand that their husbands change careers. I couldn’t do that. He loves what he does, and more importantly, he’s amazing at it: he has the highest student test scores in the district.

While we figure out what happens next, I could use a prayer, a candle, or a Budda-belly rub, whatever it is you do.

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I Love The Constitution

NORRIS: What do you make of that? How do you respond to someone who feels like you've been there too long?

Sen. BENNETT: There really is no response. Some of my supporters would report conversations they would have. One in particular said to this woman: Who are you voting for? She said: I'm voting for Cherilyn Eager. Why? Well, she loves the Constitution. All right, Senator Bennett loves the Constitution. Yeah, but Cherilyn Eager loves it more. And finally, my supporter said, well, I guess there's nothing I can say to you. And they said no, because I want somebody who really, really loves the Constitution. source

I feel like I've been remiss: I haven't communicated to you how much I love the U.S. Constitution. No, I love the Constitution. I remember the first time I truly learned about the Constitution, it was 1987, the 200th anniversary. Guys, I fell hard and fast. The sheer rush of the articles, the undulating paragraphs, the heavy breathing of the amendments; it was like nothing I'd ever known before, or would ever know again.

When I read the preamble, start perusing the sections, it's like main-lining bliss. By the time I'm knee deep in the 14th amendment, the adoration has taken hold. I'm pretty sure this is what the Rapture would feel like. If anything should hurt a line of its sections, a corner of its parchment, I swear I'd die. Simply drop dead. I don't think "divinely-inspired" covers it. Maybe the Constitution is divine itself?

In fact, why isn't the Constitution scripture? It ought to be! Throw out that King James, my friend, forget your Korans, toss those Torahs! All you need are the dulcet tones of the framers' prose! I take every section, every word as the deepest devotion, even that whole 3/5ths of a person thing--it's all delicious, every bit of it, no matter what!

And if you don't think that the Constitution is like chocolate mousse, holding your first baby, a hug from your mother, Robert Pattinson, and heroin, all wrapped up in an adorable federalist ribbon, you must be some sort of fascist-communist (who is probably trying to collectivize our land and paradoxically personifying the state in that friend of yours who still wears a trucker hat and is prone to violent fits.)

Some people have accused me of not loving the Constitution, some have even said that measuring love is an completely subjective process and that applying it to something like a governing document is nonsensical. How dare they? The unmitigated gall! Here is your measurement: take my heart, take my soul, take my children, just give me my Constitution.

Seriously, the Constitution is so awesome that I think I'm going to get it tattooed on me; it's already on my heart--metaphorically, of course (for now.) What I'd really like to do, if I have a little time, is to take our U.S. Constitution and carve it into gold. I already have a vaguely cow-shaped gold lump made from my melted earrings, I think an engraved Constitution would fit right nicely into that spot.

Now, can I have a Senate seat, please?

Thanks.

Nice Neighborhood

My new house is in a nice neighborhood. It's a neighborhood that without the significant downturn in the housing market we would never have been able to afford (thanks, Giant Pool of Money and Credit Default Swaps!) The manse is not a small house and is in need of some updating. We will be doing this updating in tiny increments so as not to interfere with our giant string cheese budget.

The funny thing is, people assume all kinds of things about us and our neighborhood. All kinds of solicitors try to get us to do stupid stuff. There was a dude yesterday who was selling a service of moving pictures from film to CDs. Really? I can't even express this problem without my brain growing an aneurysm. You want us to pay you to do something that we could easily do ourselves? And you want us to pay you to move a format that we no longer use to a format that we no longer use? GOBSMACKED. When Other Half got after the solicitor, the dude responded with, "Well, everyone is selling something."
Other Half removed that notion from the dude's cranium using lots of fancy mean words and some growling. He'll turn this place into the 'hood, like his native Florida, before we know it. Just kidding. Other Half didn't live in the 'hood (but Florida is still a hole with no mountains and lots of insane people.)

Can we talk about the fliers rubber-banded to our door? We have a few every day. I wish I could count the number of fliers pitching plastic surgery that are attached to the handles. REALLY? I know I live in a fancy neighborhood, but come on. If your idea of marketing technology involves advertising by neon rubber-band fliers, I would never, not in a million years, use your plastic surgery skillz.

A rumor has floated around for years, I even heard it when I was a child, that our neighborhood hands out full-size candy bars. THIS IS NOT TRUE. Even if it was, we will not be handing out full-size candy bars, not even the gross ones. I think we are going the individual M&M route this holiday, maybe it will confuse the hordes of strangers (honestly, they unload by the van-full) who descend on our streets in search of a full-sized Kit-Kat. NEWSFLASH: Put three fun-sized Kit-Kats together and it's THE SAME as a full-size bar. Do the math, or knock on our door and ask Other Half to do the math for you.

On that note, I'm going to bed, before midnight, because Hell called and they saw flurries.

Seriously?

I was excited when I heard that my local elementary school would be offering a secondary language immersion option. I was entirely annoyed when I found out it would be French.

Seriously? French?

Look, learning a second language does improve primary language, as well as Math and other subjects. However, the whole point in language immersion is not just to acquire a proficiency in a language but to become fluent in that language. That is why French is a not a good candidate for language immersion in the United States. Why? Because French has decreasing relevancy.

French used to be one of the major languages of international business and diplomacy, but is no longer. Sure, French is still one of the three languages that the International Olympic Committee uses, but the IOC is hardly the yardstick to use. Over the past 50 years, French has become supplanted by English as the major international business language. One could even make the argument that Mandarin or Arabic are far more important if you want your child to be fluent in something that has and will have international importance.

France has an inverted population triangle; that means that fewer people speak French every year, in France. France is making itself irrelevant by not producing enough people to even replace its own population. The major French-speaking colonies, Algeria, Niger, Congo, even the Côte d'Ivoire aren’t exactly hotbeds of international relevance, either (yellow cake issues not withstanding.) In fact, in many of those former colonies, French is being replaced by a re-emergence of native languages.

It makes absolutely no sense in any logical fashion to teach French by immersion in our local public schools. If we lived in Canada it would be different. But we don’t. A friend of mine argues that even Portuguese would be a better option.

In fact, language immersion is questionably effective for mere fluency, particularly because the student’s home must also reinforce the school-based acquisition. I would hazard that the vast majority of the elementary school’s families have absolutely no way to reinforce native French. There is no major local native French presence, my sweet and adorable friend Laurence being the most delightful exception.

I’m guessing that the immersion program is simply to appeal to the pretension of some parents who want to be able to say that their child is learning French. And let’s be clear, people should learn French, but not at the elementary level when the most valuable time to internalizing a second or third language presents itself.

Clearly, Spanish is the most relevant option. The state’s Spanish-speaking population is on the rise (currently at about 10%,) and the United States is about the third-largest Spanish speaking country in the world (depending on which measurement you use.) 34 million people speak primarily Spanish in their homes, the largest amount of any secondary U.S. language (and as a percent, more than French, Hawaiian, and all the Native American languages, combined.) In the next 30 years, the Spanish-speaking population is expected to represent 30% of the population (not to mention that the population triangle of the U.S. would be in serious trouble if it weren’t for Hispanic birth rates.)

But no.

We’re not going to learn Spanish; it’s the language of the Enlightenment for our kids.

Too bad the Enlightenment was three hundred years ago.

Cuts Both Ways

I was deep in sleep when I heard these words wake me up:
"I need something to cut with"

What? Cut? What?

"I need a knife I want to cut something, Mama, can you get me one?"
"You need a...a what?"
"A knife. I want to cut something. Can you get me a knife?"
"Wait, wait, wait, do you have a knife now?" My eyes are trying to blink, but I have no glasses, no contacts, and can barely make out the smudge of light brown hair standing in front of my bed.
I desperately start reaching my hands in his direction to feel if he has a knife.
As I'm writing that sentence I'm wondering if blindly swiping my hands in the direction of a knife possibly wielded by my child was the best idea, Sherlock.
"No, but can you get me one? I want to cut something."
"What do you want to cut?"
"I want to make a kite!"

A kite? A KITE?

"We're not going to make a kite right now."
"Why not?"
"Because YOU are going to school today!"

Happy very first day of school, El Guille!

Some people agonize whether to put their child in school, pre-, public, whatever. I have never had that problem. Sorry to mislead you with the title of this post and all, but going to school wasn't bittersweet, it was just sweet. I don't even have that mommy-sadness when children reach milestones, he's beyond ready.

When I mentioned to El Guille several weeks ago that he might be going to school he immediately walked over to the front window and said, "School? School? I WANT TO GO TO SCHOOL."
"Well it's not until next week."
El Guille, with a dazzling smile on his face, "And then the school bus is going to pick me up. The school bus is yellow. The yellow school bus is going to pick me up and take me to school! Where my friends are! Is the school bus going to pick me up because the school is way, way, way far away?"
"Actually, I will be taking you to school because it's not that far."
"Can I go now? Can I? Please? Please?"
"It doesn't start until next week"
"BUT I WANT TO GO NOW."
"We can't, no one is there, we can go next week."
"I want to go to school," he insisted with an air of finality.

I picked El Guille up after his first day at school and he was so upset with me for making him leave that he refused to tell me what he did. "Did you learn about the letter E?"
"No. I want to go back."
"Does 'E' Stand for Elephants?"
"No, it doesn't. I want to go back."

OK, Grumpy McGee, happy first day of school anyway.

But no bringing knives to school, they frown on that.

Back to school

I always know when the students are back in our college town. This year it’s because for some reason, they think they are invincible. I nearly ran over 12 of them today. That is not hyperbole. Maybe they watched too much Heroes last season and identified with the indestructible cheerleader. Let me tell you something, kids, you are not indestructible. I can destruct you. I will, too, if you continue to jay walk in the dark. I don't want to be the agent of natural selection, but if you run out in front of my car, you have incredible faith in my brakes.

And you, missy, who decided to cross the street when my light was green, you just escaped with your life. I nearly stopped and demanded your mom’s phone number. Next time I just might.

I don’t quite understand how the sense has left them. My kid sometimes forgets and walks into the road, but he’s THREE and you’re six times his age. Even he knows that cars will “squish” him.

I understand that our college is a religious school, but let me tell you something, God ain’t going to translate you in the middle of Canyon Road on a Monday night.

This is not one of those posts. This is not a Stay at Home Mom (SAHM) vs Work Out of the Home Mom thing. I think that whole debate is mostly drummed up by people who want to sell magazines and morning talk shows.

The morning I had Guille Other Half called my then boss, Gary, to tell him I wouldn’t be in that day. That voicemail became legendary.

Beeeeep “Hi Gary, this is J. I’m calling to tell you that Azucar won’t be in to work today because she had a baby. She wanted me to call you to let you know because she has this whole ‘work ethic’ thing. Whatever, I don’t get it.” Gary played that voicemail for people for the next six months. It’s kind of true…

When Other Half was putting me through school by working fulltime, I still worked three jobs. It was hard to not work (lest you think I’m supergirl, ‘work ethic’ does not extend to ‘housework ethic.’) When it was time for Other Half to finish school, after many fits and starts over the years, we decided that I would work and he would go to school and be the dad. Lots of people can work AND go to school; Other Half is not one of them.

The arrangement let both of us grow. I realized that someday it would be nice to stay at home and be a mom, an idea that I’ve struggled with since being a teenager. It gave Other Half a chance to be a fulltime dad and experience the hard work of parenting all day. I loved hearing him say things like, “Every time I clean something it’s just undone immediately!” Yes, he understands with complete empathy what it’s like being a stay at home parent. He’s a much better spouse because of the experience, and he’s a great dad. It’s been two years since he had a fulltime job. He’ll be graduating soon and is now interviewing for work.

As for me, my job used to be pretty awesome. Even though I was working fulltime, I got to bring Baby Guille with me to work for half the day. He would take his long afternoon nap under my desk while I worked. There was a little room for pumping. If there was a problem at home, I could leave. It was ideal.

In our case, as much as it was a choice, it also wasn’t. Other Half needed to finish school as quickly as possible. I made more money than him. I’ll probably always make more money than him. It wasn’t about buying jet-skis or trips to the coast; it was about being able to pay the mortgage AND tuition. I’ve never had to put my babies in day care thanks to creative school schedules and an incredible extended family.

One day I got into the elevator at work with Guille in his car seat. He was just a couple months old.
“Ooooh,” crooned a woman already on the elevator, “Who do you belong to?”
I said, “I belong to me.”
She said, “No, I mean who are you visiting?”
I said, “No one, I work here.”
She gave me the strangest look. I was a touch annoyed. You know, sometimes women with babies work, I wanted to say to her.
I didn’t want to tell her that sometimes we feel conflicted about working: it’s awful to leave the house; it’s great to leave the house. You don't get to wear aprons to work, but you do get to wear these.

We’ve come to a strange place. Even though J will be working, it won’t be enough to cover our really basic living expenses for several years. Don’t get me started on what they pay public school teachers in this state because it MAKES ME ANGRY. Let’s just say that one day we were driving down the road when we saw a sign on a fast food restaurant advertising for a night manager. J could make more money flipping burgers than teaching your child quadratic equations.

This is my last week on maternity leave, it’s hard to even type that phrase. I’m going to have to keep working for a while. Working breaks my heart into rough pieces; it makes me free and happy.

Sewing Class

B. mentioned the other day that she did horribly in school sewing classes. I had to admit that I’d only taken a mini sewing class in school. My abuelita was a seamstress by trade, so my mom was a good sewer who did her best to teach us the ropes. We used to sew all sorts of useless little projects when we were little. That’s why I never really considered taking sewing classes in school, or any kind Home Ec. courses.

Do they even teach Home Ec. anymore in schools? Not that I’m complaining, I was a proto-Feminist in school and definitely suspected any kind of Home Ec. as part of The System to keep me in My Place.

We did have to do one required rotation in Junior High. I think there was a cooking segment and then a sewing segment.

We had a brand new Home Ec. teacher, Mrs. Preston. She had blond, curly permed hair and dressed oh-so fashionably (I believe a straight denim acid-wash skirt, white socks with loafers, and high bangs were included.) I didn’t know quite why, but I knew she didn’t like me. It could have been that my resentment at being included in such basic, yet so obviously sexist courses, showed. I could also have been a know-it-all. (What? Not me, surely not?!) The other thing about Mrs. Preston was her chumminess with only the most popular girls in Junior High. Even back then I thought it was suspicious that she bonded only with the cheerleaders and the social stars.

We started with the cooking segment. We were using sweetened condensed milk one day and I volunteered that if you boiled a can for 3 hours, it turned into caramel. I still remember the look Mrs. Preston shot me—her slightly googly blue-eyes narrowing—as she said, “Yes, I know,” as clipped as possible and turned her attention to one of the popular girls.
“Ooookie,” I thought.

I don’t remember much about the cooking segment. I think we learned how to make an Orange Julius at home. I’m glad I learned that skill. In the face of some kind of hosting disaster I can whip out the frozen OJ, the ice cubes, and the powdered milk to make a delicious and refreshing Orange Julius: your public education tax dollars at work!

By the time we got to the sewing segment a few weeks later, Mrs. Preston had had it with me and anyone who wasn’t popular. Our assignment was to make a pillowcase. A pillowcase: sew three sides of a rectangle together, turn right-side out, voila. I guess a pillowcase can be tricky. You do have to remember to only sew three sides: the long side, a short side, the other long side and in order. Do not sew the other short side.

Anyway, we had to bring our own material from home. I’ve always been a swanky girl, so I brought some leftover satin that my mom had. Mrs. Preston took one look at the satin and wrinkled up her pug nose.

“You’re making your pillowcase out of that?” she sniffed.

“Yeah,” I said.

“But,” she sputtered, “How could you possibly lay your face on that? Pillowcases are made of cotton.”

“I think it feels nice,” I said.

“Eww, your face would get all hot,” she snickered.

“Whatever you stupid ‘ho,” I said. Just kidding, I just shrugged and cut out the shape of my pillowcase. Satin, however, is a little slippery to sew. I struggled a little trying to keep the lines straight on the unfamiliar school machines. Mrs. Preston walked by me and heaved a giant sigh.

I, at that moment, hated her more than any other living creature that had ever walked the earth. I wanted to pick up the sewing machine and throw it across the room. It was a good thing it was bolted to the desk. To Mrs. Preston's credit, I think she did try to help me, but it was through obligation and not out of desire, and we both knew it.

I finished the pillowcase and used it happily for years (until I outgrew pastel blue.) Every time I put my cheek on the pillow I enjoyed the smooth satin and felt a little thrill of power over Mrs. Preston.

So no, I didn’t take more than a little bit of sewing in school.

Future of America

I decided that I was going to write a mushy Valentine for J. I seriously considered it right up until I passed out watching What Not to Wear.

Instead, I will tell you that he is really enjoying student teaching. He now knows exactly what’s wrong with our public education system and is ready to change it. Now, you might be laughing at that. I’m totally not. He’s a really good teacher, but one of his other major talents is spotting inefficiencies and fixing them. I have no doubt that he will change whatever school or district he ends up in and make them better for everyone.

In the meantime, he’s teaching the Future of America basic math principles. The poor kids don’t know who they are messing with. He is no common student teacher, he is super-teacher in student teacher clothing. He had a mumbling heckler in class the other day, one of those kids that is a repeat distracter. Instead of the usual methods, J decided to criticize the mumbler’s method of distraction. J encouraged the kid to go ahead, stand up, and voice his opposition as loudly as possible. In fact, could the kid do that right now? Go ahead, the least the mumbler could do is to criticize properly. The mumbling heckler quickly saw the error of his ways (for now.)

See, J is not scared of a heckler. To the delight of most of the class, the heckler now becomes J’s best friend. The heckler gets to answer every question about every problem. “But I just did the last question,” the heckler complains. “But you have so much to say I think you should share it with everyone,” J responds. And on they go…