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The Child Whisperer
The flip-side of last week’s post thankfully, is that there are many amazing teachers that devote their whole lives to educating children. These people influence who we are in the most positive of ways, for life. Children do not forget who they are. They too are remembered and cherished forever.
In the Spring of 2001, curiosity got the better of me. My quest to find the right preschool for my overly active, precocious, almost 3-year-old son, finally provided the opportunity for me to see what was really going on in the mysterious looking Victorian house that sits majestically upon a hill overlooking the busy-ness of Route 9D. Little did I know as I walked into the hallway that echoed with song and laughter, that in-between the walls of this house that was a school, magic happened.
We were met by the cheerful smile of a woman who greeted us in the same friendly way you might be greeted by a favorite aunt. She introduced herself as Diane. We later found out that she was actually the Head Teacher of the Downstairs Program and an Administrator. The Downstairs portion of the house belongs to the 3, 4 and 5-year old learners. Immediately after introducing herself, she turned her attention to her real interest; the fidgety, inquisitive, little person clutching my leg with one hand and squeezing my arm with the other. She positioned herself on bended-knee to meet my boy; to see him, face-to-face, and as soon as I witnessed this act of immense respect from an adult educator to a 3-year-old child, I knew we had just walked into a very, very special place.
There is something about looking a person in the eye when you speak to them that makes them feel like you are sincerely interested in who they are and what they have to say and she was. He could tell.
You can’t fool children. Instinctively, they know sincerity.
My Noah, thrilled to be standing on the back of a hay truck during a visit to the farm with Diane. Preschool 2001
Diane wasn’t my son’s group teacher until two years later, but being the head of the Downstairs team, her influences and interactions were intertwined with all of the children. In his second year there, at age 4, having no trouble expressing himself verbally or physically among his peers, Diane “shadowed” Noah on the playground. Being the Child Whisperer* that she is, she followed him in his play, gently helping him choose kinder words and actions when he mingled with his friends.
Friends. That’s what Diane calls all of her students.
Okay, friends, it’s time to clean up the block room or Okay friends, we are going to get ready for lunchtime circle now.
Diane and Hannah playing with the play-dough she brought to our house.
Part of the school’s tradition was for the Downstairs’ teachers to make home visits to the children in their groups before school began in September. Twice we’ve been thrilled to welcome Diane into our home; once when my son was in her kindergarten group and again, before the start of my daughter’s first year at the Randolph School. Diane was her preschool teacher. She came bearing soft, freshly made play-dough to an unbelievably excited three-year-old fairy.
Talk about leaving a lasting impression!
This amazing teacher does not limit her generous nature to the children in her group. My daughter was struggling with writing in the second grade while in the Upstairs portion of this glorious house that is a school and where the older kids, first through fifth graders claim their domain. After asking me how Hannah was doing one day, I mentioned this to Diane who then took it upon herself to become her pen-pal that summer. Each envelope that arrived in our mailbox contained a hand written note and then some. Sparkly-feathery, sticker-y, lovely, glittery things would come pouring out before the letter.
The smallest act of kindness has the power to leave a very big, positive impact on a person’s life.
When my son was in kindergarten and told Diane he was playing the lottery for the first time, she told him to call her at home that night to let her know if he won. Had he won, no doubt, his reaction would have paled in comparison to the excitement he was overcome with when it came time to call Diane at her house and tell her he didn’t win.
Another time my son was scheduled to be in After-school but was the only child enrolled that afternoon. After bringing that to my attention the After-school teacher asked me if it would be okay to cancel. Since I only put him in because he wanted to stay at school, I agreed. This news was a huge disappointment to my little first grader and he through a massive fit on the porch of the school. That evening after speaking with him and hearing how much he was looking forward to being in After-school, I realized I had made a grave mistake by so willingly accepting the cancellation, simply because he was the only child enrolled. The next day, I sought Diane out and explained what happened. I asked her what the school’s policy was if there was only one child enrolled in the After-school program. Her response was swift and clear.
If one child wants to come to After-school, we have After-school. Now, she said, there’s one thing left for us to do.
With that, she called over the After-school teacher. The two of them went Upstairs, retrieved my son from class, apologized to him, hugged him and invited him to stay in After-school that day.
Truly extraordinary.
Diane seining in the Hudson River with another amazing teacher and their preschoolers. Noah, first in line, is like a sponge, soaking up everything they do and say.
Whether it’s a tender heart that needs mending, a river that begs seining or a rocket that needs launching, Diane has been soothing little souls, helping them to feel capable and confident in who they are, what they can do and who they might become since 1978 at the Randolph School.
Don’t get your liver in a quiver she’ll tell them when they begin to fret.
5-year-old Hannah launching her rocket with Diane.
A person who can consistently touch the lives of the people she comes in contact with, both big and small and make each one of them, myself included, feel special nearly every time she interacts with them has an EXTRAORDINARY gift. Truly.
That is Diane.
My children are better people for having been taught by Diane. I’m a better person for knowing her and having the honor of “over-hearing” how she speaks with and teaches children for the past six years while I quietly work across the hall from the Great Room where she spends much of her time with her friends.
A few months ago Diane announced that this will be her last year teaching in the big house that is a school and as inevitable as it was, the news has surely saddened many. No matter where Diane goes however, her influence, kindness and ability to make everyone she meets feel special will live on in our hearts, always. She is the teacher, the colleague, the friend that changes your life in the most positive of ways.
It is befitting that this weekend, Diane is presenting a workshop with a former student, who is now her young colleague and who is also bursting with similar magical qualities, at a conference in New York City entitled, In Defense of Childhood: Keeping the Joy of Learning Alive!
She’s been doing exactly that for nearly 34-years.
As my soon to be 11-year-old fairy who’s been receiving birthday and Christmas surprises from this teacher every year for almost as long as she’s been at this school would say so matter-of-factly…
“Mom. She’s Diane!”
Is there a Diane that has positively impacted your life?
Photo Credit #1 The Randolph School
Photo Credit #2-6 Karen Szczuka Teich & http://www.takingtheworldonwithasmile.com
Title Credit: *Child Whisperer Thank you, Nicole for letting me borrow this description of Diane from you!
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Confessions of a Catholic School Survivor
Bless the beasts and the children
For in this world they have no voice
They have no choice
Bless the beasts and the children
For the world can never be
The world they see
She was tucking the light-yellow and blue plastic container of Vaseline Intensive Care back into a drawer of her desk and we had barely returned to the hardwood chair that uncomfortably attached itself to our desks, when over the PA system came the voice of doom. The announcement demanded that all the girls who’d been to the third floor bathroom in the last ten-minutes come to the school’s auditorium, immediately!
The pock-marked, red-faced teacher who’d just finished slathering cream all over her angry face and whose first words to me after reading my name on the roster for the first time in her 7th grade math class were, “Oh, no! Not another one. You’d better not be like your sister!” eyed us suspiciously. Without a word she nodded toward the classroom door and myself and the girl I’d just been excused with immediately rose.
I will never understand why teachers who don’t like children teach. They seem to enjoy being mean or hurtful. It’s sadistic and kids can always tell who they are.
This girl and I were quite different and while I wouldn’t say we were the best of friends, we were, friendly. Confusion and fear ran through my 12-year-old body as we came upon the two fifth-graders whose entry into the girl’s room only minutes ago, prompted us to quickly discard the evidence. My heart was racing and my brain was in overdrive. Did they say something? They couldn’t have. They wouldn’t be called here with us if they did. Besides, like two little kittens cornered by a pit bull, they were clearly shaking with fear. It was all I could do to keep my fear from being as transparent as theirs.
The auditorium was dark and empty of people although we stood at the back of what seemed like endless rows of gray, metal folding chairs that stopped right in front of the big black piano that rested itself off to the side of the stage. In the distance came the echoing of footsteps clapping steadily over the hard, cold, stone floors. The door swung open and she walked in. With an ever present “gotcha” attitude and a permanently stern look on her face, she glanced us over in one terse swoop as we stood nervously in a row, all wearing the same white collared blouses beneath regulation sweaters and plaid skirts that varied in length, above and below the knee.
I think you know why you are here, she said, confidently. Can anyone tell me what was going on in the third floor bathroom? Does anyone have anything to say?
No one spoke.
Okay, maybe this will help, she said and she pulled from her pocket as only a vice principal in charge of being the heavy can, a white tissue, neatly folded into a rectangle. Do you know what this is? She asked.
Of course we didn’t know! How could we know? We were scared, witless to her antics and worried about our fates for crying-out-loud! We stood there gaping at her treasure as she slowly and quite dramatically unfolded the tissue. In her Perry Mason moment she revealed the evidence we had discarded only minutes ago.
Full props for her unexpected display of shock and awe. Her quick reaction and immediate response brought the perpetrators directly to her lair.
We had immediately discarded the evidence. Actually, my friend threw it out the window in a panic when we heard the bathroom door opening and the two fifth graders came in. Now, here it was before us, stained with the glaring, red markings that obviously pointed to at least one of us. I wasn’t allowed to wear make-up to school and the fifth graders were too young, but there she stood, my friendly schoolmate, smiling her deep, red, shiny smile, as we viewed the incredible, half-smoked cigarette butt that held the imprint of my friend’s lipstick-laden, lips.
Unbelievable! How was this possible? What are the chances of throwing a half-smoked cigarette butt out of a third floor bathroom window only to have it land on the concrete ledge of the vice principal’s open window, while she was sitting in her office?
A gazillion to one, maybe?
Evidently pleased with herself, she carefully re-folded her prize and in another dramatic moment, told us she was going to leave us alone for a few minutes and let us talk it over.
Slaughter to the altar.
I can’t speak to Catholic School these days but the one I went to thirty-years ago reveled in discipline and there was without doubt, a constant, underlying movement to instill the fear to behave in otherwise good kids. As a child functioning under those conditions, you tend to find yourself in a perpetual state of “survival-mode” knowing that anything you do or say could be deemed bad. When it’s evident that the truth will not set you free but possibly get you expelled or left with a permanent mark on your record or worse, a tarnished reputation, you make another choice.
For right or for wrong and without a single word being uttered between us, in her two-minute absence, collectively, we made a decision on how this was going to go. When she returned, it was apparent that she fully expected the culprit(s) to have cracked and step forward or be offered up by the others so that she could swoop down and usher the fallen-soul to the next level of punishment.
Instead however, we presented her with a force she was clearly unprepared for.
There was no crying or finger-pointing. On the contrary, she was met with silence.
Well? She said, impatiently
Nothing.
We said nothing. We were silent, the four of us and the vice principal who sometimes wore two different shoes to school and whose forehead was now growing red with frustration, didn’t know what to do. Clearly the evidence pointed to at least one of us but there were in fact four of us in that bathroom and no one was giving the other up.
After several minutes of agonizing silence, she reluctantly dismissed us and never a word was spoken about it again, by anyone.
I’m not saying you shouldn’t step up and take responsibility for your actions but I don’t regret the decision we made that day not to speak up. We were all pretty good kids who were often treated in a not-so-good way by some of the adults in our lives.This was after all, the same school that called my parents in to convey their concern for my then six-year old brother after he drew a black Jesus Christ. Aside from the fact that because of the climate we know Jesus lived in there’s no doubt he was a brown-skinned man, when asked by my parents why he drew Jesus black, he said it was the only crayon he could find.
Bless the beasts and the children
Give them shelter from the storm
Keep them safe
Keep them warm
~ Richard Carpenter & John Bettis
Photo Credits #1-4 Google Images
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What We’re Made Of
The memory of the ice-skating shop I referenced in last week’s post and the brilliant recall of its name, The Skate Exchange, which was revealed to me in a conversation I had this week, stirred-up some childhood memories that will no doubt come in handy.
Tell me a story, mom.
Every night when I lay with her for a few minutes at bedtime, my ten-year old daughter still asks me to tell her a story. She’s not looking for Little Red Riding Hood or Goldilocks, she wants to hear about my childhood, like how we used to jump fences when we were running from Dobermans in the gravel yard and whose kiss was the best when I played Spin-The-Bottle in the 7th grade. It’s fascinating to her and very different to how and where she’s being raised. Nestled neatly in the suburbs, an hour-and-a-half outside of the big city, there are no sidewalks for her to walk to school on, no empty lots to take a shortcut through, no bicycle to ride to a friend’s house. She doesn’t hangout on the street corner where the local deli is or come home when the sun goes down. She gets driven everywhere.
Beacon Hall ~ The building I grew up in.
She has no idea what it’s like to live in a five-story apartment building, in the summer, on the 4th floor, with no elevator. I’m not sure she even knows what a dumb-waiter is or can imagine how we used it to send garbage from our apartment to the basement or pulley-up groceries and kids occasionally. Nor can she fathom the advantages of apartment-living, how great it can be for trick-or-treating and getting a game of kick-ball together, on the fly, with the gaggle of kids that resided within. Her entire class of 3rd, 4th and 5th graders combined don’t make a whole team. Woods with trails where deer live is her backyard. In-door pools and lakes are where she swims. She’s never seen a beach laden with tar that could only be found on the rooftop of an apartment building.
Tar Beach. It’s where we carried heavy, wet loads of wash to, two-flights-up because we had no dryer and because that’s where our and all the other tenants’ clotheslines were. It’s where you could go to escape from your crowded apartment and find solace for a while, maybe even meet up with a neighbor and chat a bit.
In the summer, the sweltering heat would leave a steamy haze over the roof’s flooring, partially melting the sticky-gooey-black glue in the uneven lines where the tar was laid extra thick to patch up cracks or small holes. If you were foolish enough to go up there barefoot, which we so often were, you’d quickly scorch the bottoms of your feet, leaving them blackened and raw, after a desperate attempt to find a shady spot somewhere across the rooftop to rest and cool your toes on. Sometimes we’d bring a towel and a bottle of Johnson’s baby-oil up with our load, choosing to fry for the hour it took for the clothes to dry. It was a fast but painful way of getting a “tan”, as we always ended up red instead of brown at that hour’s end. Those were the worst of burns.
Tar Beach was where we brought our lawn chairs to watch the fire works on the 4th of July. It was the temporary home to Secret Servicemen and government snipers when President Nixon’s motorcade drove down Main Street, right passed our building in 1972.
President Nixon's Visit to New Rochelle in 1972
And it was from our Tar Beach that a woman in her early 40s purposely plunged to her death, landing in the same asphalt parking lot behind our building where we played our kick-ball games. Her name was Virginia Coombs and her mom was the Bubble Gum Lady who lived on the 2nd floor. All you had to do was knock on her door and when she opened it, she’d hand you a piece of Bazooka bubble gum from the drawer of a little wooden table she had against the wall near her apartment door. No words needed to be exchanged, expect “thank-you,” of course. She knew why we were knocking.
I didn’t know the Bubble Gum Lady had a daughter who’d been married.
I was eight or nine-years old when that happened. A few hours after her death, two men came and shoveled her remains into the bed of a red pick-up truck. I know this because I watched them do it from my bedroom window. I had to figure out how to process what I saw, myself because no one ever explained to me what happened to Virginia Coombs that day.
I chose to pray for her.
I still do, which is why I remember her name.
Tar Beach. It was from there that if no one was home when we got home from school, my siblings and I would climb down the wrought-iron fire-escape to a 4th floor, bedroom window in order to get into our apartment when we forgot our key. I remember doing this and being petrified while doing it too. I’m afraid of heights. It’s only a miracle that none of us fell and perished, ourselves.
Maybe there really is something to the old saying, “If it doesn’t kill you, it will make you stronger.”
I think it’s the experiences of our childhood and how we process them that help define what we’re made of; the good, the not so good, the scary, the sad, the joyful. All these things contribute to who we are as adults. Our childhood helps build our character. It’s there, where we learn to use humor to protect ourselves, where we learn about compassion and empathy and most of all, love. Sometimes the purest kind of love can stem from that spin-the-bottle-kiss that you remember so fondly. The kind that lasts a lifetime.
My daughter will never have the same kinds of experiences I had. She’s not meant to.
She has her own.
But she loves to hear about mine and through them, some of them anyway, I hope she’ll get a glimpse of what helped me, make me, who I am.
Photo Credit #1 Beacon Hall
Photo Credit #2 Clothes Line
Photo Credit #3 Nixon in New Rochelle 1972
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One With It!
I’m not a skier, although one day, I intend to learn. It’s on that list I’ve started creating. The one containing all those things I used to be afraid of but now seem somewhat determined to master or at least try, like horse-back riding and riding a motorcycle.
Skiing is not a sport my parents were familiar with when I was growing up, let alone could afford. My dad however, was an excellent ice-skater. Each year he’d take us to a little shop in Larchmont, where we would trade in the previous year’s skates for “newer”, bigger-foot-sized ones and have our blades sharpened. In my mind’s eye, I can still see the sparks flying from the blade-sharpening machine that was operated by the elderly man wearing goggles. The shop was on our way to Playland in Rye, NY, where there’s an ice-skating rink that the New York Rangers hockey team used to practice at and where my Dad taught us how to skate. Despite my Dad’s not-so-warm-and-fuzzy demeanor, somehow he was able to convey encouragement when teaching me how to skate; somehow the message came through loud and clear: I can do it. I can do it and I did. Maybe it was just by example, as I clearly remember how aesthetic he appeared gliding along the ice the way he did; like he was connected to it; like he was one with it; like he owned it.
My kids ski. It’s part of the curriculum at the schools they attend and for at least five Fridays in a row each winter since age five, they ski. My kids ski and I don’t. But I tell them and text them the same thing each time they go since the first time they went:
Be one with the mountain. One with the mountain! You can do it! Feel it. Own it. It’s yours!
It’s my mantra for them and it never occurred to me that they might actually “hear” me saying it. Probably in the same way it never occurred to my Dad that watching him coast so gracefully across the ice was so encouraging to me. It never dawned on me that is, until I found myself meeting up with my 10-year old skier in the ER last Friday night. For the first time since she started skiing, she took a bad fall while helping a friend and wrangled up her lower back muscles pretty badly when her butt smacked against the ice that was hiding beneath the soft, white powder. An X-ray needed to be taken, just to make sure.
“It’s your fault!” she said as I entered the hospital room. “You didn’t tell me to be one with the mountain this morning.That’s why this happened!”
Really? Fudge.
There goes that “no instructions, no rule book” thing again when it comes to parenting. Any parent can attest to it, it’s a figure it out as you go along gig. “They” don’t come with manuals. You don’t always know what will impact their lives until perhaps it’s too late. And rest assured the one time you forget to do what they expect you to and something happens, it will be your fault!!
You try your best and hope for the best.
It’s never pleasant for a parent to be called onto to such a scene. But I’ve been down the ER road with my kids before, enough anyway to know it’s better to err on the side of caution than not. I took it in stride. And thankfully, nothing was fractured, this time.
#15 ~ That's my boy!
When I got called out onto to the same scene three days later however, I was not exactly “taking it on with a smile”. Once a year I can handle, twice in the span of three days; not so much. This time, it was my boy who had taken a knee in his abdomen during a fast paced, aggressive game of basketball at school. Internal bleeding or a damaged organ was the fear but thankfully once again, my child left for the most part, unscathed. Never a dull moment. That’s the one thing all parents can be certain of.
Maybe I should have told him to “be one with the ball, Noah, one with the ball!”
For the record then and so there’s no mistake about it and hopefully no more visits to the ER, this year at least, I’m saying it now loud and clear:
Be one with it, guys, whatever it is you’re trying to do! You can do it! Feel it. Own it. It’s yours! Be one with it!
Did I mention it was my Dad’s birthday today? Happy birthday to my not-so-warm-and-fuzzy, but you got the message across anyway, Dad.
It had an impact. Thanks.
Photo Credit: #1, #3, #4 ©Karen Szczuka Teich & http://www.takingtheworldonwithasmile.com
Photo Credit #2 Playland Ice Rink
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9 Is An Awkward Number
I was elated when I signed the binder in August to unit #9 in the development I now live in. Aside from the surreal-ness of the event itself, I’d never negotiated the price of a home with a Realtor before and frankly, all things considered, I was quite happy with what we were able to agree upon.
There was just one, okay maybe two snags….
I was trying not to think about it but my 10-year-old conscience couldn’t let it rest.
I love it mom. I really do but I don’t really like the number nine. It’s awkward, nine. You know?
I know.
And there was the matter of the huge, electrical box that was smack-in-the-middle of the hallway downstairs. I guess I overlooked it in my excitement but it looked terrible.
The model didn’t have that.
“You can put a picture over it,” the Realtor said with a tooth-sparkling smile and a twinkle in his eye.
Yes, I was elated that night and I couldn’t sleep.
No matter how much I tried to ignore it, that damned electrical box kept popping into my head and let’s face it, 9 is an awkward number. Well, it’s not my favorite anyway. It just didn’t feel right for us.
It was the model that grabbed us when we first saw it on one of our many apartment hunting, house-dwelling-seeking adventures last summer. No one was around but the door was open when we stopped by, so we let ourselves in to explore and it truly was, love at first sight. It also seemed like a pipe-dream, an impossibility. But somehow, it came about. It was the model that we loved. It was the model that we wanted. So the next morning I called the Realtor and told him I changed my mind. I would not be taking number 9 but I would take the model with a few changes. Done. Number 9 was not meant to be. Number 7 was and number 7 happens to be my favorite number.
Native A
mericans believe that upon birth an animal’s spirit enters into that person and becomes their spirit or totem animal. This is the animal that is with you and guides you for life, both in the physical and spiritual world. Both of my children and myself in fact, were taught the process of finding our totems from a Naturalist who taught many kids at their school. He also taught them how to track people and animals in the woods, build a shelter from twigs, branches and leaves and camouflage themselves for protection. Not bad things to know, considering we live in the woodsier part of our state.
The duty of your spirit animal is to keep you strong and wise as well as to help you excel in matters of attributes given to that animal.
My daughter’s spirit animal is the Doe.
A Deer is an animal of love, tenderness and swiftness. The deer is a messenger of serenity, can see between shadows and hear what isn’t being said. They are a power animal, a symbol of gentleness, unconditional love, kindness and innocence. The deer teaches us to use the power of gentleness to touch the hearts and minds of wounded beings who are in our lives.
This doesn’t surprise me.
Two years ago I took my daughter into one of those “dark” shops in a small town, Upstate USA, where they sell black velor capes and you can buy mixtures of healing powders and herbs. A place where you can purchase all kinds of crystals and where they burn incense. We went for our first hennas and when the woman took Hannah’s hand to make the drawing, she seemed a bit startled and paused. She looked at Hannah and asked her if her hand always tingled like that. Hannah seemed surprised the woman noticed and answered “yes”.
The woman looked at me, smiled and said, “She has healing hands.”
Also, not surprising.
So what do I make of this? Well, maybe it’s a coincidence that my favorite number is seven and that’s the number that sits on our front door now. Or maybe it’s a coincidence that my daughter’s spirit animal is a Doe and the street we now live on has Doe in its name. And maybe it’s even a coincidence that the first evening we were here together we saw an actual doe in our back yard from our living room window.
Maybe.
Or maybe what’s meant to be will be, there really is a master plan and even if we can’t find it, it finds us.
What do you think?
Photo Credit #1: Google Images Number 9
Photo Credit #2: Google Images Lucky Number 7
Photo Credit #3: Google Images Spirit Animal
Photo Credit #4: Google Images Healing Hands
*The Doe as a totem: Source ~ Ina Wolcott’s Shamanism
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Birthday Wishes
My horoscope keeps telling me to go forth in the way I intend to be. It says with Jupiter in motion, I’m headed into the “luckiest” year in a decade, one that holds the promise of growth, stability and love. ~ Bring it on!
Even though I only blog once a week, the topic doesn’t always come easily or show itself readily. Sometimes it jumps out at me at the beginning of the week and by Friday, I’m in edit-mode. Other times, I’m at a loss. Lately, my weeks have been filled with events, expected and unexpected, and it hasn’t always been clear to me what to write about. When the topic isn’t clear, it often means there’s something tugging at my insides, gnawing at my thoughts, wanting to be recognized and released and for-whatever-reason, I ignore it until I find myself scrambling to put something together at the eleventh hour, a place I do not like to be but where I finally allow whatever it is to surface.
This week I felt stumped — again.
There is of course, the huge elephant in my room that I could write about. The senseless event that occurred at my new house, during the first week of my move that I can’t seem to find the meaning or message in. It’s so freakishly bizarre, that I can hardly process it. I can’t wrap my brain around it, let alone write about it —yet anyway. And, there are always those thoughts and feelings that linger in my mind that are too personal to reveal or express to the blogging world. Those are best kept private and close to my heart. I often struggle with not wanting to get too personal in my blog but needing to be true to whatever it is that I am feeling strongly about at the time.
When I finally sought advice from my ten-year-old editor, she told me to write about my birthday which was this week. She’s truly insightful although this seemed too simple. I rejected the idea until I sat down to see what words would flow.
My birthday.
She was right. I received so many warm, lovely wishes from old and new friends; people near and far who I often think about. I was surprised and touched by some. I heard from people I love and miss – a lot. I took a risk, spoke a truth and it was reciprocated in kind. It gave me pause and cause to think about my happiness, what I want, who and how I intend to be.
I had dinner with my family. We talked. We laughed. My kids came home and played Dance Central 2 on XBOX-KINECT. It was fun, a real treat for me to watch them dance, giggle and enjoy their time together. It was the BEST gift I could ask for.
It was simple.
Life comes with so many complications, trying to keep things simple, is my resolution this year. It’s the theme that keeps replaying itself in my head. My birthday and keeping it simple is what’s been strongly on my mind this week, that which would not go away, bringing with it messages that tugged at my heart.
There’s something to be said for the attitude we maintain and the thoughts we allow to occupy our minds. It takes effort to stave off pessimism and not wallow in the comfort of one’s own sorrows, the could-have, would-have, should-haves, that can easily take root and grow in our current state of being– if we let them.
At this end of one year and beginning of another, I can’t help but reflect upon what is now and the possibilities that can be. I’ve come to realize that choosing to create my own happiness takes resolve, hard work and starts with keeping things simple. I’m staying away from the could have, would have, should haves and going forward the way I intend to be, leaving nothing out of my realm or reach, becoming closer to the person I used to be; bursting with color, energy and excitement about the possibilities that lay ahead of me.
Photo Credit #1: Capricorn Woman-Google Images
Photo Credit #2-4: Karen Szczuka Teich & Takingtheworldonwithsmile.com
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Drinking Hot Chocolate Takes Skill
Everybody has their limits.
After all the build up and anticipation, it’s hard to believe that another year of fancy-feasts and holiday-hoopla with friends and family, attending parties and opening presents have come and gone inside the span of just about two weeks. Throw moving from one house to another into the mix of merriment-making and you may find yourself like me, teetering on the fringe of insanity because even though I am truly 100% exhausted, like that crazy “Energizer Bunny” I seem to push myself to just keep “going and going” until my body refuses to go any further, rendering me motionless, forced to stop and (gasp!) relax. That’s exactly what put me in my PJs and drove me to my bed just shy of 6pm a few nights ago. I couldn’t go on for one-more-minute. With my daughter in tow, we set ourselves up to catch up on all of the Once Upon A Time TV-episodes from the new ABC series that we missed, by being away and being busy.
Just after the first episode, Hannah asked me for “hot chocolate”. Rarely do I indulge in drinking hot chocolate myself, let alone drinking it in my bed but since I had no intention or strength left for making dinner, I figured, it was the least I could do and did what any good mother in my weary position would have and said, “sure”. I put the TV on pause, dragged myself out of the comfort I had just settled into and made us each a cup, the only way I know how; piping hot and piled high with whipped cream.
Toward the end of the 2nd of 4 episodes, I began to feel a lot better, in a jittery-caffeinated sort of way and realized we had both sipped through the white mound of sweetness that lead to the pure-chocolate-heaven that filled our mugs.
“Pause it!” I said unexpectedly, and she did.
With a burst of sugar-ized spontaneity and false energy, I jumped off the bed and ran out of the room to retrieve the red-topped can of Reddi Wip from the fridge in the kitchen.
“Mom, what are you doing?” she called from the bedroom.
Ignoring her, I made a mad-dash from the fridge, back to the bedroom and apparently, in my crazy, creamy, sugar-filled stupor, I forgot just how exhausted I really was. With can in hand, just as I rounded the corner from the kitchen to the hallway, my slippery, sock-covered feet hit the hardwood flooring at a speeding angle that sent me crashing into the wall and smashing my whole-self down, breaking the skin of my elbow and jamming my ankle awkwardly into the point where plaster meets wood. It was a ridiculous effort to break my fall without letting go of the chemical-laden can containing “REAL Cream” that I couldn’t seem to live without. 
Success! The can was saved but my body ached as I lay there moaning for a minute, hoping there was no blood and that nothing was broken. Hannah poked her head out of the bedroom, barely holding back her laughter at the sight of me sprawled out on the floor holding the can up in the air.
“Mom, are you okay? What the heck are you doing?” she asked before bursting into uncontrollable laughter; the kind that makes you snort and sends liquid squirting out of each of your nostrils if you’ve just taken a sip of something, which she had.
In the throes of pain and hysterics, I feebly got myself back up, limped my way back into the bedroom and wordlessly poured clouds of dairy whipped topping back into our mugs until they were over-filled and the can sputtered, forcing out its last drop of “REAL Cream”. I resumed my position on the left side of the bed and with a great sigh, started licking my Reddi Wip. I was the power of example as Hannah proceeded to do the same and we sat, pleasantly making our way through another mountain of sweet, white fluff, once again, warming our bellies with chocolate goodness.
Silence ensued.
Three-quarters of the way into the third episode of Once Upon A Time, Hannah looked over at me with a huge smile on her face and said with confidence,
“Drinking hot chocolate takes a lot of skill, mom.”
Yes, it does, my dear. Yes-it-does.
I always try to be cognizant of moments like this, ones that end up meaning so much. Had I not been so exhausted that my body forced myself to stop, I’m not so sure we would have found that precious time to spend together. I wouldn’t have shared that hilarious laughter with my girl and I could tell it meant as much to her as it did to me.
It was the true magic of the season showing itself. I got it. I’m grateful.
And it was very simple.
This past year has been chock-full of complicated, unexpected occurrences and while many of the events of the days behind me are a bit of a blur now, the future, even with all it’s imperfection and uncertainty really does look a little brighter, a little clearer and feels a little calmer.
I don’t think I’ll be making any elaborate New Year’s resolutions this year. I think I might drink a little more hot chocolate than I usually do and run a little less in my socks on hardwood floors but mostly, I think I’ll just try my best to simply, keep it simple.
How about you?
May your year be filled with lots of peace, love and joy!
Photo Credit #1 Energizer Bunny
Photo Credit #2: Hot Chocolate
Photo Credit #3 & #4: Reddi Wip Google Images
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Diamond in the Rough
Gratitude.
This week I can’t help but be thankful for the people in my life, my children and our health.
It’s a tradition in the school I work at, to celebrate each year’s accomplishments at a Stepping Stones ceremony in June. Throughout the year some of the faculty collect beautiful stones from a wide variety of places for each student to pick from.
A few years ago, one of our senior graduates turned the tradition around. He’d gone mining earlier in the year and instead of just taking a stone for himself, he gave each member of the faculty and staff a Herkimer diamond. It was a touching gesture.
Mine, was stolen from a drawer in my bedroom a year-and-a-half ago.
He passed away a little over a year ago.
This particular graduate was an extraordinary human being. I knew he could write, memorize and recite complicated monologues. But it wasn’t until his memorial service that I discovered the breadth of his artistic abilities. It was there that I was given a glimpse into just how talented he was. I didn’t know he had such an incredible eye for photography or that he whittled the pieces of an entire chess set out of wood or fashioned a beautiful wooden flute for his mom. He also made grand bags out of leather and bark and created with glass. He made beautiful marbles and knives. He was quite the unique individual and his art reflected that. In this technological age of all things electronic, he was a breath of fresh air.
He was a diamond in the rough.
Recently, his mom who is also an artist, had an art exhibit entitled 100 Hearts in his honor. I have three.
I spent a few days with her this summer at our place in the woods Upstate. I read her beautifully drawn journals, the ones that try to put into perspective what her daily life is like now without her son, how her grief is endless and how grateful she is for the time she had with him. As a mother I am in awe of her strength sometimes and heartbroken by her loss, always.
Just before the Thanksgiving break, I was in her classroom and she handed me a small bundle of tissue. Beneath the folds of the carefully wrapped paper lay not one but two of the Herkimer diamonds her son mined that year.
One is clear and small. The other is larger and contains rare impurities. Both are beautiful in their own special way. Heart stop.
Needless to say thoughts of this young man and his spirit have lingered with me all week-long.
Gratitude. Be happy for what you have — right now.
This week in particular, I’m thankful for the people in my life, my children and our health.
Hug your diamonds in the rough today.
Photo Credit #1 Gratitude
Photo Credit #2 Stones
Photo Credit #3 ©Karen Szczuka Teich & Takingtheworldonwithasmile.com
Photo Credit #4 Children
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The King of Birds Has Come To Stay
There’s an American bald eagle living on my fence. He’s brown and white and has an awesome wing span. He is also made of wood and appeared a day or two after Halloween.
I have NO IDEA how he got here.
At first I thought, maybe this is a mistake, he’s lost and somehow got left in front of our fence. Someone picked him up and hung him here so his owner would see him and could retrieve him.
He is after all,beautiful.
But it’s been nearly three weeks now and no one has come to claim him. His wooden presence is beginning to feel very deliberate and I’m starting to think this is not a mistake. He is not lost.
In fact, I believe this king of birds is here to stay.
Life is a journey, a constant learning experience. I seek meaning and reason for the people, places and circumstances I encounter. I always have. After the second week of “no sign of this bird leaving his new nest”, I started to try to make sense of him. I couldn’t seem to get him and how or why he came here out of my mind. I don’t know much about these birds of prey or what they represent so I decided to see if Google could enlighten me.
Maybe, I thought, there is a connection between this raptor and my life.
Here is the first thing I found, leaving me with no need to look further:
Eagles and the God Jupiter
“Jupiter believed that the Eagle could look directly into the sun, and many stories link Eagles to both the Sun and to Jupiter, as a symbol or sign of strength and courage. Images from the ancient Near East and Iran show the sun with an eagle’s wings, a sign that the bird was linked to the sun god; as well as other symbols in various cultures-usually divine associations showing strength, power and freedom.” ~ Squidoo
Karma? Coincidence? Fate?
It’s Ironic that a few weeks before I begin the trepidatious process of moving, this lion of the sky has come to rest on my fence.
I’m certain of it now; it’s a good sign and it makes me feel much better about taking Edward. There’s a replacement; something else to watch over this house that no longer feels like a home to me. The eagle stays.
What is the message?
It takes strength and courage to spread your wings and fly but with that, comes freedom.
Photo Credit #1: Karen Szczuka Teich & http://www.takingtheworldonwithasmile.com
Photo Credit#2: Jupiter (Zeus) King of the Gods
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Kids Really Do Say The Darndest Things!
This week I’m taking a cue from a blog I follow where the genius mom actually documents her kids’ quotes! Brilliant, cause kids really do say the darndest things!
If you follow my blog, you probably know I have two kids (that I love and adore) but I will only be quoting one today, my 10-year old daughter. Besides, if I were lucky enough to even overhear a conversation, let alone have one, with my 13-year old son, the entire quote would most likely consist of these three words:
Um, Yeah and Nah.
There.
I’m a good mom and have just documented my boy’s quotes for the past six months.
My girl on the other hand, is a non-stop chatterbox. (I think it’s a gender thing.) Ever see the Volvo commercial where the Dad puts his 5-year old daughter in her car seat, closes the door, gets into the driver’s seat and takes her to school, all the while, she is non-stop chatter, going on and on about who knows what?
That’s my Hannah and at age ten, not only do I get the non-stop chatter about who knows what, I get the added bonus of her opinion!
Here are a few recent ones….
On The World’s Status
My daughter goes to a progressive school and we do not practice any formal religion. I of course went to Catholic school and was a practicing catholic until I went to college, receiving many of the sacraments up until that age, including confession of my sins.
Not too long ago, my girl came home from school and asked,
Mom, what’s a sin?
Me, in freak-out mode responded, “A sin? Why? Why do you want to know what a sin is?”
I heard it was bad. My teacher doesn’t teach us about sins or war or anything. She pretty much teaches us that the world is perfect but I know it’s not perfect.
You’re a super sleuth, Hannah and you’re right, the world is not perfect.
On Getting A New Car
At the onset of having to get new wheels, I admit, I had a brief moment of panic at the thought of having to bring the car I loved so dearly back to the dealership it was leased from, knowing, now, there would be no way I could afford to lease the same car again. Myself and my girl were driving around town when it hit me and without really thinking about it or looking for a response, I tugged at the steering wheel and said,
“Hannah, how am I going to keep this car?”
Not a full minute passed before my girls’ wheels started turning and she sprung into solution mode……
Here's my Billboard Baby scooter-ing throughout the neighborhood, drumming up sales for our yard-sale earlier this year.
Mom, I got it! From tomorrow to the end of the summer, I say, we go out in the middle of the median and sell like there’s no tomorrow!
Sell? Sell what, Hannah? Lemonade?
Lemonade AND ice-pops mom, lemonade AND ice-pops!
Turns out, I LOVE my new car but Thank you, Hannah!!
On Edward
A year and a half ago, I brought Edward home. My Edward is a creepy but important part of me being able to live life on life’s terms and while we sometimes bring him out to participate in various family activities, his primary function is to keep a watchful eye on my 22-year old punk neighbor.
Edward does an excellent job!
My Edward. Doing his job.
In a few weeks we will begin the process of moving from the only home my daughter has ever known.
Mom I think we have to leave Edward here.
Why?
At least until we get to meet our new neighbors.
Why, Hannah?
Well, if we put him in the window before we meet them, they’re going to think we’re freaks and they won’t bring us cookies or cupcakes (cause we’re the new neighbors) and I want the cookies and cupcakes.
Point well taken, Hannah. I want the cookies and cupcakes too but Edward comes with us.
Hannah & Edward, just hanging around.
Besides, we both know you love him just as much as I do!
Aside from the funny stuff, there are also great pearls of wisdom and insight, as well as profound statements that often come from this blessing of a child, leaving me stunned but mostly, extremely grateful for the gift of her life in mine.
Those I’ll save for another day.
Meanwhile, for more adept quotes from other skilled and clever kids, visit the Young American Wisdom blog — the inspiration for this post!
For happy thoughts from a happy kid, visit Hannah’s blog, I’m Thinking Happy!
If you have an endearing or humorous kid quote, feel free to leave it with me!
Photo Credit #1: Sin
Photo Credit #2: Super Sleuth
Photo Credit# 3-5: Karen Szczuka Teich & http://www.takingtheworldonwithasmile.com
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Vindication
WooHoo and YipPee! I’ve gone and leased myself a brand new car!
Since mid-summer I’ve been doing the leg work, going from dealer to dealer, counting and calculating, talking and test-driving. Finally, it’s a done deal. Well, almost, I haven’t been able to connect my Blue-tooth yet but that’s just a minor technicality compared to where I began.
As most things tend to go in my life, it wasn’t all smooth sailing. In fact, a few weeks ago, I had to remind myself, “not to quit. Rest if you must, but never give up.”
Life has a way of presenting its challenges at what usually seems to be the most inopportune time, for me anyway. When I least expect it, need or want it, I’m faced with a situation that challenges my ability to deal with it and overcome it.
I’ve come to accept that life has it’s own course and either you go with it or you don’t. You move forward and progress or you get stuck. As difficult as moving forward can be, for me, staying stuck is far more painful, not to mention, detrimental.
A little over two years ago, I realized I was stuck, complacent and tired – really tired. When I decided it was time to change, things started to happen. I started to change. I seized life and it seized me.
Once the course was set, there was no turning back.
So, here I am now, in the position of having to get myself a new car. No big deal you say? I beg to differ. It’s only been 23 years since the last time I set out to get myself a car and after having lingered in complacency where I sometimes just took things for granted for the last several years, it was a huge hurdle I needed to overcome. It was a big deal and intimidating at first but I knew I needed to do this and I knew I had to do it, on my own.
That’s how we know what we’re capable of, isn’t it? By trying, despite our fears and then ultimately making it through what to us, feels like the hard stuff.
Here’s the hitch. When I reached this particular dealership after having been to a half-dozen others over the previous few months, I knew this was going to be the last stop. With my two kids in tow, we headed inside. I also knew the drill. I’d done my homework. I’m a straight shooter and don’t like to waste time or haggle. I come clean with what I want and what I can pay, right at the get-go.
The receptionist called for a salesman, we waited a few minutes and the moment he appeared, I knew. I just knew by his demeanor that this wasn’t going to be the cake-walk it should have been. He was nonchalant, disinterested and indifferent at best. He was chewing something, looked the three of us over, nodded at me, swallowed and said, “Can I help you?”
His words were insincere. I felt like I had just interrupted his lunch.
Nonetheless, I told him the two models I was interested in. He paused and waved us outside. We followed. In the lot, he motioned his hand toward two cars parked side by side, smiled a most unconvincing, smile and waited for me to make the next move. He never invited me to test drive either car or to come back inside. He never asked me if I had any questions.
I thanked him and left.
Maybe it was the car I drove there in or the fact that I was a woman with two kids in tow. Perhaps, I’ll never really know. What I do know is that he didn’t take me seriously, at all. I felt disrespected by his treatment. Even my kids noticed:
What’s up with that guy Mom? Doesn’t he know you want to buy a car? my daughter asked. Well, I said, he just lost that sale.
Disheartened and disappointed by this chauvinist, the more I thought about it, the more annoyed I got. I wanted to test drive those models. I wanted one of those cars and the closest dealership of the same kind is 40-minutes away. I didn’t want to have to get my car so far away when there was a dealer less than 10-minutes from where I live. I shouldn’t have to and after a few weeks of brooding, it occurred to me.
I didn’t have to.
Last week I returned to the same dealer. This time, I was completely alone. When the receptionist asked me had I been here before, I said “yes”. When she looked up my name she said, “Oh let me get the salesman who helped you last time.”
I could see him looking up and over toward me from behind his desk in the glass enclosure that is his office. I directed my attention toward the receptionist and said,
No thank you. I don’t want his help. He didn’t seem to take me seriously the last time I was here and I’m quite serious about getting a car.
Without missing a beat, the woman picked up her phone and called for another salesman.
I have a customer here in the showroom, can you come and help her?
Ten minutes later I was test-driving the car I wanted.
Two days later I signed the lease to my new car!
During the test drive, the new salesman, a seemingly normal, decent, nice guy, asked me what happened with the first guy and after telling him about my experience, I asked if the first guy was the manager?
No, he replied, but he has aspirations. And by the way, you’re not the first person to complain about his attitude.
Vindication. Thank you.
Life has it’s own course. Rest if you must but never give up.
For the last two years I’ve been facing challenge after challenge, moving forward with trepidation hoping that I have what it takes to make it through.
I don’t give up, I don’t quit and I find, that I do.
And I love my new car!
Photo Credit #1 Celebration
Photo Credit #2 New Car
Photo Credit #3 Light Bulb
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Oops! I Think The Universe Was Listening!
When I stated last week that I had gotten my, second wind and was ready for whatever else should happen to come my way, boldly telling the universe to “BRING IT ON!”, I wasn’t exactly talking about the Nor’easter that came full force, literally blowing me and millions of others away this Halloween weekend!
No, No! This is not what I meant at all!
My blog is all about striving to live life on life’s terms and handle its unexpected events with as much grace and decorum as I can but I’m afraid the unexpected event of having a foot of the white stuff covering my front lawn in October, is nearly enough to send me over the edge!
Seriously, doesn’t Mother Nature know my son was supposed to have a championship football game this Sunday?
Or was it Old Man Winter who was awakened from his slumber?
Doesn’t he know he has at least four to six weeks left of snooze time before having to blast down on the North East?
Could it have been <GASP> my doing?
Perhaps this was an early, Halloween trick conspired by the two heads of nature?
Major tree damage, downed limbs and widespread, rampant power outages was the prediction and By-George, that’s exactly what we got! We lost power at around 5pm Saturday. By 7:30 our county was declared a “State of Emergency”.
Hurricane Irene and the rains that followed left our Hudson Valley grounds sopping to the roots! Throw in the seasonal fact that many trees still carry their fall leaves, add heavy, wet snow and gusty winds and you have the disaster that we got; two days before Halloween! It was a cold, long night but thankfully, we got our power back at around 10am this Sunday morning. Considering what I’ve come to see and hear, I think we’re among the luckier lot who got their power back as soon as we did. No doubt, some people in our and the surrounding areas will be in the dark for days!
My girl, surveying the snow right before we lost power, Saturday.
Ugh. I’m bummed! I’m a huge fan of this and all holidays. I love to decorate and celebrate. Who will see our graveyard now that it’s buried under a foot of snow? I want to hear the rustling of leaves beneath sneakers as the ghosts and goblins approach my door, not the squishy-squeaky sound of snow boots sloshing their way up the footpath!
My boy, who is going as a Cheer-leading girl, is gonna freeze his hairy legs off!
On his way to the Halloween dance at school Friday evening. When there was only leaves on the ground!
My girl, who is going trick-or-treating as a Sponge-Bob, is going to, well, be miserable!
Friday's pre-Halloween parade celebration at school.
It’s too early, too soon for this freezing nonsense! I’m just not prepared to be wearing my winter coat in October. It’s something I prefer to ease my way into, not be abruptly forced into! I’m not even sure I know where my snow boots are!
BRING IT ON!
I said it. It’s true. I put it out there.
I’m sorry.
Next time, I’ll keep my declarations to myself!
I don’t ever recall snow, let alone a full-blown storm in this New York area before Halloween. Do you? Were you affected by the storm?
Have a safe and happy Halloween everyone!
Photo Credit #1: Mother Nature
Photo Credit #2: Old Man Winter
Photo Credit #3-5: ©Takingtheworldonwithasmile.com & Karen Szczuka Teich
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The Devil Made Him Do It!
Either that, or it was his funny bone!
©2007 NHT Noah Henry Teich (My son’s hand drawn picture that became an art-card for Christmas gifts and Thank-You cards. I think it’s probably a good thing he didn’t go to Catholic school.)
Some people are just naturally funny. They don’t have to try hard. The joke just kind of flows out of them, or their PowerPoint presentation.
I ask you, what’s life without a little humor?
Seriously. I know this 15-year old sophomore who happens to be a funny guy and who happens to go to a Catholic school. I went to Catholic school from Kindergarten to 12th grade. Anyone who has ever gone to Catholic school knows, funny and religion do-not-mix-well. Do one “funny” thing and you’re immediately slapped with the “class clown” label for as long as you go to that school. Being the class clown in Catholic school can mean countless hours of detention, clapping the erasers (cause they still have erasers) or worse; points taken off grades. It can mean being called out of class and calls made home, to parents; not to mention purposeful, public scoldings designed to put you in the position of becoming the “example” for any other student who might be thinking humor belongs in school. Thus, the funny guy becomes the fall guy.
In short, Catholic School is 99.9% serious business. Recently, my funny little sophomore friend, fell.
Here’s what happened:
The Religious Assignment
Make a PowerPoint presentation talking about the story of Our Lady of Guadalupe.
The Back Story
Saint Juan Diego
According to tradition, on December 9, 1531 Juan Diego, a young, simple indigenous peasant, had a vision of a young woman while he was on a hill in the Tepeyac desert, near Mexico City. The lady told him to build a church exactly on the spot where they were standing. He told the local bishop, who asked for some proof. He went back and had the vision again. He told the lady that the bishop wanted proof, and she said “Bring the roses behind you.” Turning to look, he found a rose bush growing behind him.He cut the roses, placed them in his poncho and returned to the bishop, saying he had brought proof. When he opened his poncho, instead of roses, there was an image of the young lady in the vision. (Manga Hero)
St. Juan Diego is proof that God uses those who are most humble to do His work. By all accounts, Juan Diego, was a humble and young man.
Serious stuff.
My young, sophomore friend, who also happens to be an honor student, put all of this serious information into his Power Point presentation, only when it came time to reveal Juan Diego’s likeness, my funny friend flashed this image to his class instead of the one above:
Saint Juan Diego – maybe
Come on, now THAT is funny!
Needless to say, this startling, daring, depiction of the young, blessed Saint Juan Diego in my friend’s Power Point presentation brought the class to well, pandemonium to put it mildly; uncontrollable laughter burst onto the scene, requiring the teacher to admonish the class several times before order was restored. And if you’ve ever gone to Catholic school, you know, order MUST be restored.
The Consequence
Being called out of the next class. The “call” home to the parents. 18 points taken off the final grade, giving this slacker an 82 out of 100% on the report and a mandatory apology letter to the teacher (at the teacher’s request, of course).
Inside information from the mom: apology letter number one, had to be scratched when the boy, after saying he was sorry to the teacher, said he only did it to try to keep the rest of the students from falling asleep in class. “Kudos”, I say for at least being truthful.
Was it worth the laugh? I asked him.
Yes. It was totally worth the laugh. I thought these Power Points could use some funny moments.
There you have it and again, there’s got to be something said for the honesty here, not to mention, you are witnessing a comedian in the making. I sent the boy $10 in the mail along with a note telling him not to be disrespectful but never to lose his sense of humor.
The world needs more levity if you will; more laughter.
The Result
Not only will every student in that religion class remember the story of Our Lady of Guadeloupe, always and forever, they will remember it, with a smile on their face.
The Disclaimer
While the views expressed by this student do in fact reflect those of this author, ABSOLUTELY NO DISRESPECT is meant toward the Catholic church, its teachers or teachings.
I’m Catholic. I went to Catholic school and I only WISH some kid had the moxie to do something–anything to cause the type of uproar and uncontrollable laughter in class that this boy did.
It would have made the whole experience so much more human,
with a little more humor.
Photo Credit #1 ©2007 
Noah Henry Teich
(All rights reserved. Not to be reproduced.)
Photo Credit #2 Saint Juan Diego
Photo Credit #3 Forwarded From The Nameless Catholic Boy
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Not-So-TechNo-Savvy
This week I went to curriculum night at my tween-age boy’s school. He’s in the 8th grade. After a brief introduction by the head master and head of the middle school, we were directed to our children’s “Advisory” class-rooms or to put it more plainly, their “home-rooms”. From there, we were to switch classes, like our kids do, only we’d be spending 10-minutes rather than 100, in each of five classes. As a nod to the general “age-group” of the parents in attendance and to emphasize the progression of technology over the years, the archaic sound of the internet connecting through the phone lines via modem was played over the PA system, signaling us to move on to the next class.
For your listening pleasure and for those who are too young to remember anything but silence when connecting to the “net”, I borrowed one of YouTube’s renditions of a 56K Modem making the internet connection, back in the day.
Easy enough, I thought. How difficult could this be?
While I appreciate the nostalgic effect that particular sound brings with it, it truly has to be one of the most annoying sounds on the planet.
After ten minutes in five classes and a brief description of options offered in the “Arts” quite frankly, I was dizzy. It wasn’t the obnoxious modem sound or the subject matter that threw me, it was the technology and how information is disseminated that left me feeling well, stressed. Truth be told, I was absolutely exhausted by the time I left. It was overwhelming to try to keep up with how information gets exchanged between student and teacher and parent and administration, without a single piece of paper being is used.
Gone are the pen and pencil requirements. I’m not even sure these kids know what loose-leaf is anymore. There are hardly any textbooks either. Every child has to have their own lap top –in class! Homework and class assignments are posted either on the school’s website, a white board or a smart-board. When completed, the student uploads their work to a Google-docs, except in science where they put it into a wiki page on a wiki space. Here the students interactively edit each other’s pages and the teacher leaves comments or wiki-texts for individual students.
No offense, but I’m just starting to get the hang of regular “text-ing”.
What is “wiki-text-ing” and is it really necessary? Am I going to have to learn this too?
In science my son is going to be “paired” with a student from another school who is working on the same experiment his class is; one involving Menthos and Diet Coke –think lots of fizz and a minor, okay maybe not so minor, explosion! The pair will video-chat their methods and findings.
Are you still with me?
Good because by the time I got to the third class, I was losing steam and clarity, rapidly!
It started with the white board, moved to the smartboard and in Spanish we were introduced to the (new) soundboard! This is not like something you would find in a radio station. It’s something the student uses at home. They speak their homework into their computer and through this new program and technology, the teacher “hears” how they’re speaking in Spanish on her computer and assesses their progress.
In order to better grasp these technologies and try to make sense of what I saw, I tried looking them up when I got home. Here’s what I found:
A Smart Board is a series of interactive whiteboards developed by Smart Technologies and includes the 600 series, the 800 series and the 400 series (only available in Europe, the Middle East, Africa, Asia Pacific, Latin America and Mexico). The first Smart Board interactive whiteboard was introduced in 1991. (Wikipedia)
Got it?
Me neither.
An “interactive whiteboard” is the electronic equivalent of the physical whiteboard and may be software in a user’s computer or a stand-alone unit. It allows users in remote locations to simultaneously view a running application or view someone’s drawings on screen. Whiteboards may or may not provide application sharing, in which two or more people are actually working in the same application at the same time. (PC Magazine)
I think they’re messing with me here.
Is a smart board a whiteboard or a whiteboard a smart-board or what??
A soundboard is a computer program, Web application, or device, traditionally created in Adobe Flash that catalogues and plays many short soundbites and audio clips. Soundboards are self-contained, requiring no outside media player. (Wikipedia)
I totally got lost on this one. Is it a program or a device? Does the kid have this board at home? Is this another required purchase?
And again, is this something I am going to have to learn how to use?
I’m confused.
Even though I don’t quite understand them, I am pretty blown away by the capabilities of these boards although, I can’t say I’m fully on board with what seems like an inundation of technology.
Truthfully, I miss the chalk board.
Photo Credit #1 Chalk Board
Video Credit #1 56K Modem
Photo Credit #2 Smart Board
Photo Credit #3 White Board
Photo Credit #4 Texting
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Just Another Once-In-A-Lifetime Experience!
What constitutes a once-in-a-lifetime experience?
I’ve been going back and forth on this for a while now, with my mom.….
…….and debated on whether or not to bring my kids.
But realized, this would be a once-in-a-lifetime experience for them and me.
And my rather stubborn, 74-year old mother was not going to change her position anyway.
With or without me………………….
…………she was getting a tattoo!
Great job, Pepper -Thanks!
She – we, LOVE her first tat!
Not only did Pepper do a fantastic job on my mom’s tattoo. Everyone at Graceland was really nice to all of us. They let my kids sit on a couch close enough to be able to watch the process and they played Irish music in the shop while Pepper was inking Nana’s shamrock.
A little “shell-shocked”, they had no idea they were going to watch their Nana get a tattoo! Life is full of surprises!
When I asked my kids what was going through their minds while Nana was getting her tattoo, my daughter said:
I was thinking, ‘Oh great, now mom is going to want one, too!’
So maybe that will make for two “once-in-a-lifetime” experiences. We’ll see.
Have you ever taken somebody to get a tattoo?
Photo Credits: ©Karen Szczuka Teich & http://www.takingtheworldonwithasmile.com
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