I was able to make it down to Edmonton to surprise Rachel and Kevin on their wedding day. The hectic few days leading up to it were punctuated by the sudden and unwelcome appearance of CHICKEN POX in Julia, random mysterious NON CHICKEN POX RASH on Elena and general malaise in Jacob, none of which boded well for wedding festivities. I was crushed at the idea of missing the wedding and by the Grace of my awesome family and nanny, managed to finangle a plane ticket, a ride to the church and then took the midnight Greyhound back home to Fort Mac. It was hectic, beautiful and something I will never regret attending.
July 4, 2009
"Feels like Home"
Tuesday, July 07, 2009
Monday, June 22, 2009
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
25, no, make that 10, Epiphanies I’ve come to recently
If this is too long and honest, blame Stan, he started it.
1. I don’t know that I can stop at 25. I have thought about this meme often and since it seems to be making its rounds closer and closer to my immediate circle I am feeling that impending anxiety creeping up on me, leaving an eerie soundtrack in its wake. I have fantasized about making sublists—25 things about my kids you’d know if you were really friends with me, 25 food obsessions I have, 25 mom-isms I never dreamed I would say, 25 freakishly sad things you never thought I’d be thinking, etc. But then I realized that people barely want to read one liners in a listed meme, never mind whole diatribes about what people (namely me, interestingly enough) really hide behind in the privacy of their homes. Perhaps it is best if I stick to the status quo. Naw, I’ve never really been good at keeping with the status quo. Bitchy? Perhaps. Maybe to make it less off-putting, I will only post 10. If you are so inclined, you can ask me about the other 15.
2. I have never had a best friend who really considers me their only best friend. You know, thereby lending meaning and validity to the idea of *best*. I think that this plays into the heart of why I am somewhat (OK, very) reluctant to let people really close to me. By keeping people at arms distance, I guess I feel like I am going to hurt less when they invariably (a) move away (b) lose touch (c) stop knowing what is really happening in my life (d) stop caring enough to ask a genuine question. BTW, only responding when Facebook reminds you to is not really enough, in my opinion.
3. I think that I have unrealistic expectations of friendship. I must because I cant seem to hang onto them for longer than a 5-7 year span and it is the only thing I can tell myself in order to move on. Yes, my whole life has been a series of 5-7 year friendships which then fall apart and then I drift into a different friendship circle which lasts roughly 5-7 years before things change so irrevocably that I feel like my world is collapsing all over again. I am in one of those shifts right now and I am terribly torn apart because I am desperately afraid that there might not be another friendship in the future at all. I am hoping that I am wrong about it this time, that there is time to shift things back into equilibrium, but I am often foolishly optimistic about these friendship things.
4. I am grateful to the people who are close to me right now. I love being asked what I am thinking about or feeling, I so glad you want to know what my crazy kids are up to these days, I love that you feel confident enough to give me intimate gifts in public places. You want so much for me to be able to be strong and make those hard choices and assure me that you are there to help me if I falter. But I am afraid and it isn’t because I have doubts in you, it’s because I have doubts in me.
5. My children’s personalities simultaneously inspire me and frustrate me. Julia’s anxiety mirrors my own in such a painful way, I often turn it around and hate myself in those moments so much because I know that it causes me pain and therefore must make her hurt too. I don’t know what to do about this. Elena’s strength of will impresses me and burns me because while I know that being strong will stand her in good stead throughout her life, the fact that she feels the need to fight me on everything makes me crazy. Jacob’s infallible sense of courage and spunk makes me hold my breath, laugh and fret. I try not to let my composure betray my fears for my children. I think that sometimes this makes me project other emotions. I am working on that too.
6. I have a hard time letting go. This manifests itself in mental, emotional and physical clutter. Some of it I have come to grips with, a lot of it I haven’t. I seem to keep stems of wilted friendships like bad potpourri, poking back into my conscience at odd moments. Some I have wrought upon myself, others I have allowed to fester, some have yet to realize that they have been cut and are wilting at all. All keep me up at nights, thinking about “what ifs” and “if onlys”. I think that I keep the pain, like many survivors of life, in order to remind myself of the journey I have travelled and to make me cautious of what lies ahead. I don’t know that this is all bad.
7. I am a pretty sexual person. I know that this makes some people uncomfortable, but I am glad that I am comfortable in my body. Although I would prefer not having as much post-baby weight and think that exercising might just lift some of this darkness from my soul, I am pretty confident in my sexuality and like the fact that I am uninhibited in a lot of ways. To be sure, I have a plethora of issues that stem from moments best forgotten, but on the whole, I am very satisfied. (Take that as you will, you are probably correct)
8. I am easily hurt. There was a Jewel song that I can’t remember the name of but had a line that I would often sing to myself in quiet moments: “Please be gentle with me, I’m sensitive and I’d like to stay that way.” I may not show it externally but snide comments, brisk snubs and even unintended brush offs, feed into my notion that close friendships do not exist for people like me. Outwardly I tell the world that I don’t care much anyway and that I have other, better, more pressing issues to deal with, but inside I am often so wounded that I retreat into myself and feed the anxiety monster. Churchill called his the Black Dog, but mine is more like a wiggling gnat that burrows and twigs remembrances and past grievances. If you hurt me, you might not ever know it. But I will remember that feeling forever.
9. My memory has been compared to Swiss cheese. Holey, convenient and somewhat sharp on the tongue. I will often have to re-learn ideas and concepts many times and still be able to look confident even when I am fudging it. I didn’t remember how we weaned Julia from the breast or from the bottle in order to do the same with Elena. And now that Jacob is at that stage, I don’t remember what we did with either girl. In fact, I don’t even remember how we got Jacob finally weaned from the breast and that was only a short time ago. (Don’t ask me when that happened, I would have to look it up). These types of memory lapses alternately help me and hurt me. I feel like I am quite an organic responsive teacher in the classroom—I have to pay attention to how the class responds to how I have set up the lesson, even if I have taught it before because I don’t always remember enough minor details about the way they responded the last time to make it the same. Therefore, even though I might teach two sections of the same course, the way they go are completely divergent because I have few expectations about the way the lesson will proceed. Most of the time, kids respond positively to less rigidity, because the end goal remains static, even if the journey there is not. In school it seems to work for me, however, in my personal life people will say to me “But you said this ___ days ago, don’t you remember?” and the answer will always be “Really? Did I say that? Sorry.” It’s not that I don’t mean what I say or that I am dismissive of what is being asked or that I don’t think it is important enough to be remembered, but my brain is just not structured in a way that makes remembering easy. Brain injury will do that to you, I guess.
.
.
.
25. I love my husband more now than I ever have before. I used to worry that our relationship would suffer from the same 5-7 year purge that all of my other relationships seem to falter but with each child, each move, each career step we’ve taken in almost 10 years together, we have grown closer and more solid in our commitment. Some days it is hard to see the forest for the trees, but we can usually connect back to the heart of our marriage. I am so appreciative of him, even when he makes me frustrated and angry, his personality and mine mesh in a way that makes it possible for me to accept and face whatever lies ahead.
1. I don’t know that I can stop at 25. I have thought about this meme often and since it seems to be making its rounds closer and closer to my immediate circle I am feeling that impending anxiety creeping up on me, leaving an eerie soundtrack in its wake. I have fantasized about making sublists—25 things about my kids you’d know if you were really friends with me, 25 food obsessions I have, 25 mom-isms I never dreamed I would say, 25 freakishly sad things you never thought I’d be thinking, etc. But then I realized that people barely want to read one liners in a listed meme, never mind whole diatribes about what people (namely me, interestingly enough) really hide behind in the privacy of their homes. Perhaps it is best if I stick to the status quo. Naw, I’ve never really been good at keeping with the status quo. Bitchy? Perhaps. Maybe to make it less off-putting, I will only post 10. If you are so inclined, you can ask me about the other 15.
2. I have never had a best friend who really considers me their only best friend. You know, thereby lending meaning and validity to the idea of *best*. I think that this plays into the heart of why I am somewhat (OK, very) reluctant to let people really close to me. By keeping people at arms distance, I guess I feel like I am going to hurt less when they invariably (a) move away (b) lose touch (c) stop knowing what is really happening in my life (d) stop caring enough to ask a genuine question. BTW, only responding when Facebook reminds you to is not really enough, in my opinion.
3. I think that I have unrealistic expectations of friendship. I must because I cant seem to hang onto them for longer than a 5-7 year span and it is the only thing I can tell myself in order to move on. Yes, my whole life has been a series of 5-7 year friendships which then fall apart and then I drift into a different friendship circle which lasts roughly 5-7 years before things change so irrevocably that I feel like my world is collapsing all over again. I am in one of those shifts right now and I am terribly torn apart because I am desperately afraid that there might not be another friendship in the future at all. I am hoping that I am wrong about it this time, that there is time to shift things back into equilibrium, but I am often foolishly optimistic about these friendship things.
4. I am grateful to the people who are close to me right now. I love being asked what I am thinking about or feeling, I so glad you want to know what my crazy kids are up to these days, I love that you feel confident enough to give me intimate gifts in public places. You want so much for me to be able to be strong and make those hard choices and assure me that you are there to help me if I falter. But I am afraid and it isn’t because I have doubts in you, it’s because I have doubts in me.
5. My children’s personalities simultaneously inspire me and frustrate me. Julia’s anxiety mirrors my own in such a painful way, I often turn it around and hate myself in those moments so much because I know that it causes me pain and therefore must make her hurt too. I don’t know what to do about this. Elena’s strength of will impresses me and burns me because while I know that being strong will stand her in good stead throughout her life, the fact that she feels the need to fight me on everything makes me crazy. Jacob’s infallible sense of courage and spunk makes me hold my breath, laugh and fret. I try not to let my composure betray my fears for my children. I think that sometimes this makes me project other emotions. I am working on that too.
6. I have a hard time letting go. This manifests itself in mental, emotional and physical clutter. Some of it I have come to grips with, a lot of it I haven’t. I seem to keep stems of wilted friendships like bad potpourri, poking back into my conscience at odd moments. Some I have wrought upon myself, others I have allowed to fester, some have yet to realize that they have been cut and are wilting at all. All keep me up at nights, thinking about “what ifs” and “if onlys”. I think that I keep the pain, like many survivors of life, in order to remind myself of the journey I have travelled and to make me cautious of what lies ahead. I don’t know that this is all bad.
7. I am a pretty sexual person. I know that this makes some people uncomfortable, but I am glad that I am comfortable in my body. Although I would prefer not having as much post-baby weight and think that exercising might just lift some of this darkness from my soul, I am pretty confident in my sexuality and like the fact that I am uninhibited in a lot of ways. To be sure, I have a plethora of issues that stem from moments best forgotten, but on the whole, I am very satisfied. (Take that as you will, you are probably correct)
8. I am easily hurt. There was a Jewel song that I can’t remember the name of but had a line that I would often sing to myself in quiet moments: “Please be gentle with me, I’m sensitive and I’d like to stay that way.” I may not show it externally but snide comments, brisk snubs and even unintended brush offs, feed into my notion that close friendships do not exist for people like me. Outwardly I tell the world that I don’t care much anyway and that I have other, better, more pressing issues to deal with, but inside I am often so wounded that I retreat into myself and feed the anxiety monster. Churchill called his the Black Dog, but mine is more like a wiggling gnat that burrows and twigs remembrances and past grievances. If you hurt me, you might not ever know it. But I will remember that feeling forever.
9. My memory has been compared to Swiss cheese. Holey, convenient and somewhat sharp on the tongue. I will often have to re-learn ideas and concepts many times and still be able to look confident even when I am fudging it. I didn’t remember how we weaned Julia from the breast or from the bottle in order to do the same with Elena. And now that Jacob is at that stage, I don’t remember what we did with either girl. In fact, I don’t even remember how we got Jacob finally weaned from the breast and that was only a short time ago. (Don’t ask me when that happened, I would have to look it up). These types of memory lapses alternately help me and hurt me. I feel like I am quite an organic responsive teacher in the classroom—I have to pay attention to how the class responds to how I have set up the lesson, even if I have taught it before because I don’t always remember enough minor details about the way they responded the last time to make it the same. Therefore, even though I might teach two sections of the same course, the way they go are completely divergent because I have few expectations about the way the lesson will proceed. Most of the time, kids respond positively to less rigidity, because the end goal remains static, even if the journey there is not. In school it seems to work for me, however, in my personal life people will say to me “But you said this ___ days ago, don’t you remember?” and the answer will always be “Really? Did I say that? Sorry.” It’s not that I don’t mean what I say or that I am dismissive of what is being asked or that I don’t think it is important enough to be remembered, but my brain is just not structured in a way that makes remembering easy. Brain injury will do that to you, I guess.
.
.
.
25. I love my husband more now than I ever have before. I used to worry that our relationship would suffer from the same 5-7 year purge that all of my other relationships seem to falter but with each child, each move, each career step we’ve taken in almost 10 years together, we have grown closer and more solid in our commitment. Some days it is hard to see the forest for the trees, but we can usually connect back to the heart of our marriage. I am so appreciative of him, even when he makes me frustrated and angry, his personality and mine mesh in a way that makes it possible for me to accept and face whatever lies ahead.
Monday, January 26, 2009
Friendships in Final Exams
I cried at work today.
I was marking the last few final essays for my grade ten courses and was getting geared up to plan the next semester. I flipped the essay stack thinking only about how many I had already marked and how I hoped the next few would go quickly. I was unprepared, therefore, for what awaited me.
The essay before me was fairly innocuous, at first. The introduction was plot driven, restatement and a general frisson of disappointment. I had been drilling essay structure and outline form for awhile and I had half hoped that some of it would come through for the final exam, even if I had not seen it materialize during the course.
The topic was friendship, the excerpt a classic email forward type short story, I am sure you know the one: boy walks home with an armload of books, someone knocks them over and the someone else comes along to help him out, makes friends with him and ends up saving his life. We had struggled with the idea of even including it, it seemed too easy, too mundane, too straight forward to relate ideas of friendship and its values to the literature we had explored over the semester. But we kept it because we wanted the kids to succeed and to take away a sense that they had a topic that they could relate to and understand.
As I continued to read, it became apparent to me that this kid--a slight boy with tousled black curls and a gentle humour--was baring his soul to me on his final exam. That he had been in the shoes of the boy from the excerpt. That he, too, had been saved. And that the time they had spent together was in my class. And that he felt "amazed by how the story relates to me. But it can also relate to everybody."
Teachers, of literature especially, often fantasize about choosing *that* piece of literature that is going to change someone's life. That the trajectory of their world would be vastly different if not for those moments, those 80 minute stretches of time in dingy overcrowded classrooms, that make them feel whole again, that make them feel valued. I am humbled. I didnt feel like I had changed anything at all and then some kid comes along and feels comfortable enough during a final exam to tell me about his friend who "helped me find other friends and even got into one of my school classes. If not for him, I would have no friends at all."
It is hard to really describe the emotions of this day; elation, pride, shocked, overwhelmed. I dont know that it changes anything about my teaching style. If anything I suppose I shouldnt change anything at all. But since I always tell my students that I dont share literature with them to torture them or to make their days hell, but simply to share different perspectives and experiences. I am glad that something I did faciliated something so right.
You see, the student in question, I learned today, had been taken to the hospital close to the start of the year. Depression had settled heavily upon him. Fear and danger kept the administration hovering around him in case he slipped into self harming behaviour, but as the year wore on, they hovered less and he came out of his shell more.
I want to shout his story from the rooftops, but I have a feeling that the student who helped him would also be as surprised as I was today to find out this revelation. His small acts of kindness were not, are not heavily lauded. And perhaps they shouldnt be. My student, as I said, is a quiet and private citizen. It is enough, perhaps that I know.
There are no words to express this relief: that dark days do have rays of hope, that small acts of kindness really do change lives and that sometimes, just sometimes, we are lucky enough to know the impact we have had.
I was marking the last few final essays for my grade ten courses and was getting geared up to plan the next semester. I flipped the essay stack thinking only about how many I had already marked and how I hoped the next few would go quickly. I was unprepared, therefore, for what awaited me.
The essay before me was fairly innocuous, at first. The introduction was plot driven, restatement and a general frisson of disappointment. I had been drilling essay structure and outline form for awhile and I had half hoped that some of it would come through for the final exam, even if I had not seen it materialize during the course.
The topic was friendship, the excerpt a classic email forward type short story, I am sure you know the one: boy walks home with an armload of books, someone knocks them over and the someone else comes along to help him out, makes friends with him and ends up saving his life. We had struggled with the idea of even including it, it seemed too easy, too mundane, too straight forward to relate ideas of friendship and its values to the literature we had explored over the semester. But we kept it because we wanted the kids to succeed and to take away a sense that they had a topic that they could relate to and understand.
As I continued to read, it became apparent to me that this kid--a slight boy with tousled black curls and a gentle humour--was baring his soul to me on his final exam. That he had been in the shoes of the boy from the excerpt. That he, too, had been saved. And that the time they had spent together was in my class. And that he felt "amazed by how the story relates to me. But it can also relate to everybody."
Teachers, of literature especially, often fantasize about choosing *that* piece of literature that is going to change someone's life. That the trajectory of their world would be vastly different if not for those moments, those 80 minute stretches of time in dingy overcrowded classrooms, that make them feel whole again, that make them feel valued. I am humbled. I didnt feel like I had changed anything at all and then some kid comes along and feels comfortable enough during a final exam to tell me about his friend who "helped me find other friends and even got into one of my school classes. If not for him, I would have no friends at all."
It is hard to really describe the emotions of this day; elation, pride, shocked, overwhelmed. I dont know that it changes anything about my teaching style. If anything I suppose I shouldnt change anything at all. But since I always tell my students that I dont share literature with them to torture them or to make their days hell, but simply to share different perspectives and experiences. I am glad that something I did faciliated something so right.
You see, the student in question, I learned today, had been taken to the hospital close to the start of the year. Depression had settled heavily upon him. Fear and danger kept the administration hovering around him in case he slipped into self harming behaviour, but as the year wore on, they hovered less and he came out of his shell more.
I want to shout his story from the rooftops, but I have a feeling that the student who helped him would also be as surprised as I was today to find out this revelation. His small acts of kindness were not, are not heavily lauded. And perhaps they shouldnt be. My student, as I said, is a quiet and private citizen. It is enough, perhaps that I know.
There are no words to express this relief: that dark days do have rays of hope, that small acts of kindness really do change lives and that sometimes, just sometimes, we are lucky enough to know the impact we have had.
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Birthday Thoughts from an Angel of Change
So I turn 32 today. Somehow it feels like so much more of a significant landmark in my life than turning 30. 30 just didnt seem to be one of those "landmark" years, you know? I mean, I was already in the groove of teaching, I didnt have anything significant on the radar, I still had two children and didnt know yet that a third was going to be coming along. I was blissfully unaware of the things that were to come. And consequently, I felt like 30 wasn't a big deal.
But this year? This year I learned a lot about myself, about my family, about what stands and what falls by the wayside in hard times. I learned about the things that I could really count on and what was only being carried along for the ride under the guide of "significant".
I am in the midst of a huge personal revelation and it is both hard and frustrating. I dont know yet if I am going to have the personal fortitude to see it through, to be able to suck up the pressures that will invariably come, the tears that will undoubtably be shed.
Personal growth is always one of those "resolutions" that people make in January and while I do not think any less of people who make promises to change but do not create lifestyle changes to see those promises come to fruition. God knows, I was one of *those* people. And perhaps this year I will remain one.
If you are reading, I do not intend to hurt you in this process, but things are different at 32 than they ever were and things are changing to reflect those differences.
I am no longer the same person I was even last year at this time and I dont know that anyone but me really sees that.
But this year? This year I learned a lot about myself, about my family, about what stands and what falls by the wayside in hard times. I learned about the things that I could really count on and what was only being carried along for the ride under the guide of "significant".
I am in the midst of a huge personal revelation and it is both hard and frustrating. I dont know yet if I am going to have the personal fortitude to see it through, to be able to suck up the pressures that will invariably come, the tears that will undoubtably be shed.
Personal growth is always one of those "resolutions" that people make in January and while I do not think any less of people who make promises to change but do not create lifestyle changes to see those promises come to fruition. God knows, I was one of *those* people. And perhaps this year I will remain one.
If you are reading, I do not intend to hurt you in this process, but things are different at 32 than they ever were and things are changing to reflect those differences.
I am no longer the same person I was even last year at this time and I dont know that anyone but me really sees that.
Saturday, January 24, 2009
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
Holidailies: Appreciation (Part 3)
I was browsing through a message board one day and an advertisement for a dance studio jumped out at me. OK, it wasnt really an advertisement, per se. In fact, it wasnt an advertisement at all. Someone was asking for a recommendation for a dance class for their little girl and I wanted to see if anyone would recommend the dance studio that had broken my girl's love of dance. Someone did. And just as I was reaching for the "Reply to this message" button, I stopped to read the rest of the responses. Just beneath, in a fairly non descript post, someone had a recommendation for a dance studio I had thought was gone. you see, many people had recommended this dance studio and the lady who ran it, but when we went to look for it, it had closed down. Or so we thought.
As it turned out, she had closed her studio, but was still offering small group lessons and in a location that was 50 000x better than the last place! I felt a mix between excitement and fear. What if going to a different teacher really wasnt the problem? What if my girls really were just disillusioned by dancing for life?
I first asked Elena if she was willing to try dancing again. She had, after all, been more willing to stick it out the last time around. She agreed to a new dance teacher and more dance lessons. Thankfully, Elena's memory is shorter and her hard feelings, while pasionate, are not long lasting. She is not one to hold a grudge forever.
Julia, though, had to be approached a bit more delicately. So we told her that she could just watch Elena's class and see if it was something that she wanted to join. We spoke to the teacher, a lovely lady who was just as crestfallen about Julia's experiences in dance as we were. Her visible dismay when we told her that Julia had lost her love of dancing was telling.
"But all little girls should love to dance! They should dance everywhere! In the kitchen! In the living room! In the grocery store!" She flapped her hands as she spoke, her distress punctuating each place that she saw would-be petite ballerinas. She had me then, but her words only helped to solidify my feeling that I had found the teacher I wanted to teach my children.
Julia and I peeked in the windows at Elena's class and saw the songs and rhymes, the way she held their hands as they danced and played beautiful classical ballet andantes and waltzes. We saw the thoughtful props--sparkly wands and fluttering scarves. And as we watched Julia grew excited and interested. And thus, Julia's love of dancing was rekindled.
I can not express my gratitude in clear enough words to say what is in my heart. What gift is there for someone's creativity? What appreciation is sufficient for someone's childhood joy?
We can only do small things in our lives, perhaps. Mother Teresa famously said that if we do those small things with great love, great things will happen.
I agree. Ms. Joanne, you have done a great thing, though it may seem small to you. And for that I am eternally grateful.
As it turned out, she had closed her studio, but was still offering small group lessons and in a location that was 50 000x better than the last place! I felt a mix between excitement and fear. What if going to a different teacher really wasnt the problem? What if my girls really were just disillusioned by dancing for life?
I first asked Elena if she was willing to try dancing again. She had, after all, been more willing to stick it out the last time around. She agreed to a new dance teacher and more dance lessons. Thankfully, Elena's memory is shorter and her hard feelings, while pasionate, are not long lasting. She is not one to hold a grudge forever.
Julia, though, had to be approached a bit more delicately. So we told her that she could just watch Elena's class and see if it was something that she wanted to join. We spoke to the teacher, a lovely lady who was just as crestfallen about Julia's experiences in dance as we were. Her visible dismay when we told her that Julia had lost her love of dancing was telling.
"But all little girls should love to dance! They should dance everywhere! In the kitchen! In the living room! In the grocery store!" She flapped her hands as she spoke, her distress punctuating each place that she saw would-be petite ballerinas. She had me then, but her words only helped to solidify my feeling that I had found the teacher I wanted to teach my children.
Julia and I peeked in the windows at Elena's class and saw the songs and rhymes, the way she held their hands as they danced and played beautiful classical ballet andantes and waltzes. We saw the thoughtful props--sparkly wands and fluttering scarves. And as we watched Julia grew excited and interested. And thus, Julia's love of dancing was rekindled.
I can not express my gratitude in clear enough words to say what is in my heart. What gift is there for someone's creativity? What appreciation is sufficient for someone's childhood joy?
We can only do small things in our lives, perhaps. Mother Teresa famously said that if we do those small things with great love, great things will happen.
I agree. Ms. Joanne, you have done a great thing, though it may seem small to you. And for that I am eternally grateful.
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Holidailies: Appreciation (Part 2)
When we chose activities for the kids, we were (and are) limited by the community and availability. But, as little girls are the way they are, we had twirling ballerinas in our living rooms, in our kitchen and everywhere we went. "I love to dance, mom!" The girls would join their little hands and, shrieking with laughter and exhileration. They would spin themselves dizzy and fall in a giggling heap and then get up and do it again. It seemed natural, then, to find somewhere that they could harness that exuberance and dance to their little hearts content.
We searched for a dance studio and found one that seemed fresh and new. Both girls were excited by the majesty of the dance outfits, the ballet slippers bought especially for that class. We looked forward to the dance show--tiny twirling petite ballerinas spinning in tutus. Truly a picture of magical childhood memories.
The first days were rough and confused but sometimes it takes an adjustment period and we felt that we should encourage the girls to wait and see how things went, to keep trying, to have fun. I had my misgivings about everything related to the dance class but I kept it to myself, not wanting to taint the joy of dancing and feeling a bit out of my element since I had never taken dance, so how could I crititcize?
Slowly, it began to sink in--the crying and begging not to go; the struggle to cajole them into attending. There was no more dancing in the living room. They didnt twirl in the kitchen. They didnt play pretend ballerina" anywhere anymore. And worse, they started to say, "I hate dancing." Somehow, somewhere along the way, dance class made my girls feel sad and small.
Julia told me one day that she didn't love dancing and that she wanted to stop because dancing felt bad. I had my own reservations but I wasnt the one who was dancing so perhaps I just didnt understand what was happening. We asked Elena the same questions about her classes and she agreed to give it one more chance, just to make sure. But with Julia, the joy was gone and there were no more chances left in her to even try.
In the end we allowed her to quit dancing, felt badly enough that she wasnt enamopured by dancing, that at age 5, she had already set her heart against it. It made me weep that the thing that had given them so much joy was also giving her so much grief. What had gone so terribly wrong?
Time passed and Julia had some misgivings about quitting, especially when the year end dance show came and went, but even Elena had a hard time scrounging up her enthusiasm. She did it, complained about her tutu, and then, when it was done for the year, felt relieved and glad to be done. A three year old should not feel such things about something they love to do.
So it seemed that their dance class days were done--I didnt have the heart for pushing them or continue enrolling them in something that brought them such deep unhappiness. I hoped that one day they would rekindle their love of dance if I left it alone. As it turned out, it was rekindled, quite by accident.
We searched for a dance studio and found one that seemed fresh and new. Both girls were excited by the majesty of the dance outfits, the ballet slippers bought especially for that class. We looked forward to the dance show--tiny twirling petite ballerinas spinning in tutus. Truly a picture of magical childhood memories.
The first days were rough and confused but sometimes it takes an adjustment period and we felt that we should encourage the girls to wait and see how things went, to keep trying, to have fun. I had my misgivings about everything related to the dance class but I kept it to myself, not wanting to taint the joy of dancing and feeling a bit out of my element since I had never taken dance, so how could I crititcize?
Slowly, it began to sink in--the crying and begging not to go; the struggle to cajole them into attending. There was no more dancing in the living room. They didnt twirl in the kitchen. They didnt play pretend ballerina" anywhere anymore. And worse, they started to say, "I hate dancing." Somehow, somewhere along the way, dance class made my girls feel sad and small.
Julia told me one day that she didn't love dancing and that she wanted to stop because dancing felt bad. I had my own reservations but I wasnt the one who was dancing so perhaps I just didnt understand what was happening. We asked Elena the same questions about her classes and she agreed to give it one more chance, just to make sure. But with Julia, the joy was gone and there were no more chances left in her to even try.
In the end we allowed her to quit dancing, felt badly enough that she wasnt enamopured by dancing, that at age 5, she had already set her heart against it. It made me weep that the thing that had given them so much joy was also giving her so much grief. What had gone so terribly wrong?
Time passed and Julia had some misgivings about quitting, especially when the year end dance show came and went, but even Elena had a hard time scrounging up her enthusiasm. She did it, complained about her tutu, and then, when it was done for the year, felt relieved and glad to be done. A three year old should not feel such things about something they love to do.
So it seemed that their dance class days were done--I didnt have the heart for pushing them or continue enrolling them in something that brought them such deep unhappiness. I hoped that one day they would rekindle their love of dance if I left it alone. As it turned out, it was rekindled, quite by accident.
Monday, December 08, 2008
Holidailies: Appreciation (Part 1)
Today I am guilty of running out and buying a spur of the moment gift for Christmas. I will also admit that I had forgotten to get the girls' ballet teacher anything for the season at all and, while that is not exactly the worst thing ever since not everyone needs to get a gift for everything (see previous post about the "reason for the season") I really feel strongly about letting people know that their work is noticed and appreciated.
As a teacher I know that the appreciation for the time I spend with teenagers pays dividents far in the future. I know that one day a former student will look up and say "Hey I learned that in my high school English class" and that moment when they think back and say, "Huh, I cant believe I remember that." will be my payment. It's not much, but I hang onto the idea that one day it *will* happen. I am not there to witness it but I am mostly OK with that. I dont need more tchkokes anyway.
What is important to me, however, is making sure that the people in my children's lives know just how much we appreciate the efforts that they make and that who they are is helping to mold the future. Now you may be thinking that is a rather grandiose and exaggerated statement, but I can tell you that every person who spends more than 5 mintues with my children is remembered. My children still talk about people they have only met once, in passing. "Hey mom, do you remember that man in the store when I was 2 years old? He gave me some money when we were standing in line. I was shy but he gave me money anyway. Remember him, mom?" Yes. I would rather have her forget that creep but, alas, a mind like an elephant. In any case, it's always the small things that seeem to make the biggest difference. Isnt that always true?
When I was growing up, my parents afforded us a vast amount of opportunities--Chinese school, swimming lessons, music (piano and violin) camps, string orchestras and private tutors, summer camps, Scouts for my brother, and so on. And I have to admit that when was growing up it seemed like the thing to do. I never thought about the lives of the people who taught me, never thought to thank my parents for their perseverance and dedication to driving and paying for supplies and lessons, for taking the time to find out when they ran, and matching up the hectic schedule with everything else that was going on. The extracurricular grind just seemed like an inescapable part of my childhood. It never occured to me that I ought to spare a moment to thank the people who helped to graft onto my soul my love for music, who patiently guided my understanding of water, helped to spark that love of community and sharing. I dont know that my parents intended for me to learn those things, but I did.
I dont know that the things that are the most important parts of life are things that are elucidated. You know what I mean: learning to have a good conversation, learning to appreciate and then, by extension, be appreciated, learning to give back to the community because you recognize just how much the community has given to you, learning how to be a good freind. Those are moments that come with experience and trial by fire. But somewhere, too, someone has been there to show you that experience. Someone has guided you through the turbulent waters and shown you the safe harbour that exists among the jagged rock.
It is important to me, then, that I give my children as many experiences possible. We want them to find something that drives them and inspires them, of course, but more than that I want to show them that you can find amazing people in the most unlikely places. That it is people who make the world go 'round, not things.
As a teacher I know that the appreciation for the time I spend with teenagers pays dividents far in the future. I know that one day a former student will look up and say "Hey I learned that in my high school English class" and that moment when they think back and say, "Huh, I cant believe I remember that." will be my payment. It's not much, but I hang onto the idea that one day it *will* happen. I am not there to witness it but I am mostly OK with that. I dont need more tchkokes anyway.
What is important to me, however, is making sure that the people in my children's lives know just how much we appreciate the efforts that they make and that who they are is helping to mold the future. Now you may be thinking that is a rather grandiose and exaggerated statement, but I can tell you that every person who spends more than 5 mintues with my children is remembered. My children still talk about people they have only met once, in passing. "Hey mom, do you remember that man in the store when I was 2 years old? He gave me some money when we were standing in line. I was shy but he gave me money anyway. Remember him, mom?" Yes. I would rather have her forget that creep but, alas, a mind like an elephant. In any case, it's always the small things that seeem to make the biggest difference. Isnt that always true?
When I was growing up, my parents afforded us a vast amount of opportunities--Chinese school, swimming lessons, music (piano and violin) camps, string orchestras and private tutors, summer camps, Scouts for my brother, and so on. And I have to admit that when was growing up it seemed like the thing to do. I never thought about the lives of the people who taught me, never thought to thank my parents for their perseverance and dedication to driving and paying for supplies and lessons, for taking the time to find out when they ran, and matching up the hectic schedule with everything else that was going on. The extracurricular grind just seemed like an inescapable part of my childhood. It never occured to me that I ought to spare a moment to thank the people who helped to graft onto my soul my love for music, who patiently guided my understanding of water, helped to spark that love of community and sharing. I dont know that my parents intended for me to learn those things, but I did.
I dont know that the things that are the most important parts of life are things that are elucidated. You know what I mean: learning to have a good conversation, learning to appreciate and then, by extension, be appreciated, learning to give back to the community because you recognize just how much the community has given to you, learning how to be a good freind. Those are moments that come with experience and trial by fire. But somewhere, too, someone has been there to show you that experience. Someone has guided you through the turbulent waters and shown you the safe harbour that exists among the jagged rock.
It is important to me, then, that I give my children as many experiences possible. We want them to find something that drives them and inspires them, of course, but more than that I want to show them that you can find amazing people in the most unlikely places. That it is people who make the world go 'round, not things.
Sunday, December 07, 2008
Holidailies: The Reason for the Season
This time of year it seems like there is never enough time to do the things I want to get accomplished need to get done in order for things to be perfect resemble the holidays. I always tell myself not to get too caught up, to limit the things I want to do and focus instead on the things that I can actually, reasonably do. What happens between the time I have that very reasonable logic and the actual madhouse panic that exists every December, I doubt I will ever know.
It seems to me that no matter what there is a current that swells up and washes me away from my intentions (good as they may be, haha) into the frenzy of everyone else. I hear a lot of people balking about how much the Christmas season should (a) be only known as the holiday season, (b) not encroach upon other months than December, (c) be less materialistic and (d) should celebrate the reason for the season. Oddly enough, although points (a) and (d) inherently conflict, people remain adamant.
My daughter is 6 and, as I have previously discussed, has shown a deep and endearing interest in the reason for the season. Since we are not church-going folk, this education in all things faith related seems a bit piecemeal and random. She picks things up from TV and movies, from her friends, from our friends and other family members and, strangely enough, from her school teachers. I guess that someone at school has taken it upon themselves to tell the kids the story of Christmas. We have freinds who are horrified at the prospect of public school infringing on Catholic school grounds--any hint, therefore of religion thereby inappropriate and plain wrong. They feel quite strongly that the "damn Jesus music" should not be played over the PA and the Christmas trees should be left under the stage from whence they came.
Neither Dwayne nor I have particularly vehement reactions to the teaching of the Christmas story, to the playing of random carols and to the twinkling vignette of Christmas trees that lights up the school entryway. We dont particularly mind that the concert is called the Christmas concert and that the break in December is not referred to as Winter break, but as Christmas break. I am a pragmatist and it is what it is. The reason we get a break in December is ecause of Christmas. I suppose that you could sugarcoat it and convince yourself that there is some other logical reason that we have the days off that exactly overlap Christmas every single year, but I think you'd be kidding yourself.
I grew up Buddhist until there were hints of corruption in the venerable monk we visited (I dont care what religion you belong to, lying about enlightenment is the one way ticket in the wrong direction) and while we didnt celebrate Christmas as the birth of Christ, we did do Christmas--we had a tree, presents, turkey dinner. We sung carols in school and watched "A Christmas Carol" and "It's a Wonderful Life". And being able to know about those stories, those traditions, the little things that revolved around the time of year, helped me to relate to the world that existed around me. I also learned about Kwannza, Channukah, Diwali, Eid al-Adha and Tohji-taisai and all of those understandings wrapped around me like a blanket that warmed me.
To me, the reason for the season has less to do with the birth of a prophet and more to do with celebrating our morality, our mortality, and our integration with one another. Simply put "Peace on Earth" needs to exist in our own hearts before we will see the change in the world. Opening our minds to explore the season, therefore, will show us the world in all its twinkly light splendour, showcasing goodwill and being first tolerant and than accepting of all our similarities.
Julia asked Dwayne "How did Jesus get his magic anyway, magic isnt real!"--> Now THAT tells me that it is Ok that she be exposed to religion, always questioning the status quo, that one. I am busy this year, yes, but I hope that the busyness translates into twinkly light splendour, into goodwill towards men, into tolerance and into love and acceptance.
It seems to me that no matter what there is a current that swells up and washes me away from my intentions (good as they may be, haha) into the frenzy of everyone else. I hear a lot of people balking about how much the Christmas season should (a) be only known as the holiday season, (b) not encroach upon other months than December, (c) be less materialistic and (d) should celebrate the reason for the season. Oddly enough, although points (a) and (d) inherently conflict, people remain adamant.
My daughter is 6 and, as I have previously discussed, has shown a deep and endearing interest in the reason for the season. Since we are not church-going folk, this education in all things faith related seems a bit piecemeal and random. She picks things up from TV and movies, from her friends, from our friends and other family members and, strangely enough, from her school teachers. I guess that someone at school has taken it upon themselves to tell the kids the story of Christmas. We have freinds who are horrified at the prospect of public school infringing on Catholic school grounds--any hint, therefore of religion thereby inappropriate and plain wrong. They feel quite strongly that the "damn Jesus music" should not be played over the PA and the Christmas trees should be left under the stage from whence they came.
Neither Dwayne nor I have particularly vehement reactions to the teaching of the Christmas story, to the playing of random carols and to the twinkling vignette of Christmas trees that lights up the school entryway. We dont particularly mind that the concert is called the Christmas concert and that the break in December is not referred to as Winter break, but as Christmas break. I am a pragmatist and it is what it is. The reason we get a break in December is ecause of Christmas. I suppose that you could sugarcoat it and convince yourself that there is some other logical reason that we have the days off that exactly overlap Christmas every single year, but I think you'd be kidding yourself.
I grew up Buddhist until there were hints of corruption in the venerable monk we visited (I dont care what religion you belong to, lying about enlightenment is the one way ticket in the wrong direction) and while we didnt celebrate Christmas as the birth of Christ, we did do Christmas--we had a tree, presents, turkey dinner. We sung carols in school and watched "A Christmas Carol" and "It's a Wonderful Life". And being able to know about those stories, those traditions, the little things that revolved around the time of year, helped me to relate to the world that existed around me. I also learned about Kwannza, Channukah, Diwali, Eid al-Adha and Tohji-taisai and all of those understandings wrapped around me like a blanket that warmed me.
To me, the reason for the season has less to do with the birth of a prophet and more to do with celebrating our morality, our mortality, and our integration with one another. Simply put "Peace on Earth" needs to exist in our own hearts before we will see the change in the world. Opening our minds to explore the season, therefore, will show us the world in all its twinkly light splendour, showcasing goodwill and being first tolerant and than accepting of all our similarities.
Julia asked Dwayne "How did Jesus get his magic anyway, magic isnt real!"--> Now THAT tells me that it is Ok that she be exposed to religion, always questioning the status quo, that one. I am busy this year, yes, but I hope that the busyness translates into twinkly light splendour, into goodwill towards men, into tolerance and into love and acceptance.
Saturday, December 06, 2008
Holidailies: Beginnings
Over the last few days my daughter Julia has brought up the idea of war, having been told a bit about it in school. Since she is 6, we try to keep the conversation relatively simple, although she is a very astute kind of kid and pulls no punches when discussing things that are on her mind. She told us that in school her teacher (a first year teacher—you know the type: young, enthusiastic, and still unjaded idealistic person!) told them that war happened when there were people who were fighting with each other—bad guys who were doing bad things in other places.
I suppose that I should have allowed her the latitude to believe that war was always something that was perpetrated by “bad people” and that the people who were “good” were the ones who would always be the ones defending the world against their evil crimes. But I didn’t know where to draw the line between what makes people “good” and other people “bad”.
You see, we are always lecturing the kids to stand up for themselves—Julia is a bit of a passive aggressive type—the kid who would get pushed and rather than push back or defend herself against mean comments, would cry and then plot some exacting revenge. Anyway, we are constantly at the kids to stick up for themselves—to tell people when they are uncomfortable with the status quo, to stand up for those who are unwilling or unable to stand up for themselves.
And so I think that having clear cut ideas of what makes people “good” and “bad” opens up a kettle of fish—by shoving a bully back when she has been pushed down, she has now opened herself up to the accusation of being the aggressor, the continuer of the conflict. From the outside looking in, I guess without any context, she could be seen as a bad person for engaging in aggressive behavior. Of course, it takes understanding to see why she has done what she has and that her behavior should be characterized as defensive not aggressive, but you and I know that people do not always pause to understand. Perhaps especially because Canada is known as a land of pacifists, I think that within each of us burns a certain articulation that every story has two parts and that perspective holds insights to many issues that plague our world views. That is, in short, there are no definitive “bad guys” and “good guys” except thinking that makes it so. Too difficult for a six year old to ponder, perhaps.
My 4 year old is a bit more pragmatic—she says with the blitheness of a child who has known security, warmth and love all the days of her life: if they are fighting, they should stop. And perhaps that reason holds more truth than all the rationalizations put together. Now, Elena is by no means a peacekeeper. She is an inherent fighter—one who is too stubborn for her own good “I want to do it! Myself! But you have to help me Right Now!” And we always have to remind her to be gentle, to have patience, to think before she acts. But impetuousness is in her nature and I pray that she will always know her own mind and be not afraid to speak it.It is difficult times we live in, you and I.
So, here I sit, typing in a land of ice and cold, where the snow is drifting tonight, softly coating the streets. It has been a late snowfall this year, the snow only falling within the last few weeks. We were fortunate enough to miss the snow on Halloween and the kids were able to stay out much longer because of the milder temperatures. But now the snow has arrived and with it, the dangers of black ice, forgetful drivers who have forgotten how to maneuver their vehicles over snow packed roadways, and children who underestimate the perils of walking, the chill of the wind, the numbness of the skin two minutes after exposure.
The holiday music is playing softly, the babies are blissfully asleep, and I, tired from long days and short nights, cringing from the uncertainty of the government, the frailty of the economy and the sharp concerns of the daily niggling details, feel the fullness of the moment and breathe a prayer of thanks and relief. One more day I have been granted and so we go.
I suppose that I should have allowed her the latitude to believe that war was always something that was perpetrated by “bad people” and that the people who were “good” were the ones who would always be the ones defending the world against their evil crimes. But I didn’t know where to draw the line between what makes people “good” and other people “bad”.
You see, we are always lecturing the kids to stand up for themselves—Julia is a bit of a passive aggressive type—the kid who would get pushed and rather than push back or defend herself against mean comments, would cry and then plot some exacting revenge. Anyway, we are constantly at the kids to stick up for themselves—to tell people when they are uncomfortable with the status quo, to stand up for those who are unwilling or unable to stand up for themselves.
And so I think that having clear cut ideas of what makes people “good” and “bad” opens up a kettle of fish—by shoving a bully back when she has been pushed down, she has now opened herself up to the accusation of being the aggressor, the continuer of the conflict. From the outside looking in, I guess without any context, she could be seen as a bad person for engaging in aggressive behavior. Of course, it takes understanding to see why she has done what she has and that her behavior should be characterized as defensive not aggressive, but you and I know that people do not always pause to understand. Perhaps especially because Canada is known as a land of pacifists, I think that within each of us burns a certain articulation that every story has two parts and that perspective holds insights to many issues that plague our world views. That is, in short, there are no definitive “bad guys” and “good guys” except thinking that makes it so. Too difficult for a six year old to ponder, perhaps.
My 4 year old is a bit more pragmatic—she says with the blitheness of a child who has known security, warmth and love all the days of her life: if they are fighting, they should stop. And perhaps that reason holds more truth than all the rationalizations put together. Now, Elena is by no means a peacekeeper. She is an inherent fighter—one who is too stubborn for her own good “I want to do it! Myself! But you have to help me Right Now!” And we always have to remind her to be gentle, to have patience, to think before she acts. But impetuousness is in her nature and I pray that she will always know her own mind and be not afraid to speak it.It is difficult times we live in, you and I.
So, here I sit, typing in a land of ice and cold, where the snow is drifting tonight, softly coating the streets. It has been a late snowfall this year, the snow only falling within the last few weeks. We were fortunate enough to miss the snow on Halloween and the kids were able to stay out much longer because of the milder temperatures. But now the snow has arrived and with it, the dangers of black ice, forgetful drivers who have forgotten how to maneuver their vehicles over snow packed roadways, and children who underestimate the perils of walking, the chill of the wind, the numbness of the skin two minutes after exposure.
The holiday music is playing softly, the babies are blissfully asleep, and I, tired from long days and short nights, cringing from the uncertainty of the government, the frailty of the economy and the sharp concerns of the daily niggling details, feel the fullness of the moment and breathe a prayer of thanks and relief. One more day I have been granted and so we go.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Remembrance and Hope
Today is a day of remembrance, of reflection, of collective sorrow, or shared pain. Somewhere in time, there have been moments of intensity, overwhelming emotion and incredible hardship. And as a nation we have come to this moment.
Today is a day of circumstance and a day of quiet joy. Finding time to mark a silent minute of respect, a day to cuddle together with loved ones, an hour to share a laugh and break some bread and know, in the corners of your heart, that these moments are only possible because of someone else's sacrifice is enough to make anyone pause and breathe a silent prayer of gratitude.
Every year we try to provide a moment of cheer and goodwill to someone who is less fortunate than we are. Usually this includes charities like the Samaritan's Purse (Operation Christmas Child shoeboxes), Santa's Anonymous (or sometimes Santa's Not-As-Anonymous where we have actually gotten the names of a family and have pulled together a hamper and gifts specifically for that family). And this year we have found a cause that is a bit closer to Dwayne's heart than to mine: Chosen Soldier.
Chosen Soldier is a program that matches soldiers serving in Afghanistan and ordinary Canadian citizens who wish to send cheer packages, emails and letters of support--especially over holidays, but generally while deployed. It is less of a "holiday giving" type activity and more of an on-going support that we can share with the kids now that they are getting to the age where they might begin to see the world is not as rosy and secure all of the time. We want them to know that their actions, even from a distance, can have an impact on the world. I want them to capture the essence of hope.
Dreadful as it may seem, I am always thinking about writing and yet do not seem to find the time to sit here and write out the thoughts that buzz around. It is my determination that I should do so more often since it really helps to clarify the state of affairs, both in my head and in my house.
All of my friends have fallen off the blogging bandwagon, me included. It is difficult to admit but I felt more included and informed when I could read people's thoughts, rather than just try to presume a tone or feeling from the one-liner Facebook updates that have replaced blog updates. But we can not change the actions of others without first taking upon those actions ourselves, so here I am.
On this day of remembrance, where we celebrate the heroes of our times, the unyielding courage in the faces of adversities that we can not even begin to fathom, I would also like to take a moment, silent or not, to celebrate you. You who are the cornerstones of my heart, you who have cried with me, laughed with me, felt my pains and cheered my accomplishments. You who have your own courageous moments and times of tribulation. You are my heroes.
It is my hope, onthis day of reflection, that my children will know the love that we share and that despite the distances that separate us, you are always in our thoughts.
Today is a day of circumstance and a day of quiet joy. Finding time to mark a silent minute of respect, a day to cuddle together with loved ones, an hour to share a laugh and break some bread and know, in the corners of your heart, that these moments are only possible because of someone else's sacrifice is enough to make anyone pause and breathe a silent prayer of gratitude.
Every year we try to provide a moment of cheer and goodwill to someone who is less fortunate than we are. Usually this includes charities like the Samaritan's Purse (Operation Christmas Child shoeboxes), Santa's Anonymous (or sometimes Santa's Not-As-Anonymous where we have actually gotten the names of a family and have pulled together a hamper and gifts specifically for that family). And this year we have found a cause that is a bit closer to Dwayne's heart than to mine: Chosen Soldier.
Chosen Soldier is a program that matches soldiers serving in Afghanistan and ordinary Canadian citizens who wish to send cheer packages, emails and letters of support--especially over holidays, but generally while deployed. It is less of a "holiday giving" type activity and more of an on-going support that we can share with the kids now that they are getting to the age where they might begin to see the world is not as rosy and secure all of the time. We want them to know that their actions, even from a distance, can have an impact on the world. I want them to capture the essence of hope.
Dreadful as it may seem, I am always thinking about writing and yet do not seem to find the time to sit here and write out the thoughts that buzz around. It is my determination that I should do so more often since it really helps to clarify the state of affairs, both in my head and in my house.
All of my friends have fallen off the blogging bandwagon, me included. It is difficult to admit but I felt more included and informed when I could read people's thoughts, rather than just try to presume a tone or feeling from the one-liner Facebook updates that have replaced blog updates. But we can not change the actions of others without first taking upon those actions ourselves, so here I am.
On this day of remembrance, where we celebrate the heroes of our times, the unyielding courage in the faces of adversities that we can not even begin to fathom, I would also like to take a moment, silent or not, to celebrate you. You who are the cornerstones of my heart, you who have cried with me, laughed with me, felt my pains and cheered my accomplishments. You who have your own courageous moments and times of tribulation. You are my heroes.
It is my hope, onthis day of reflection, that my children will know the love that we share and that despite the distances that separate us, you are always in our thoughts.
Sunday, June 08, 2008
Nearing year end
June is upon us and with it comes a plethora of exciting (not) end of year related tasks. The one I am not looking forward to the most is the annual clearing of my classroom. Now, for those of you who know me (and why would you be reading this, realistically, if you didnt?) you will know that I am a notorious paper keeper.
Yes, despite having made thousands of promises to declutter and even having made a purchase of 500 GB (yes, GIGABYTES) of memory for the express purpose of keeping my paper and photo situation at least somewhat under control, my classroom and office areas are still quite awash in school related papers. (Scrapbooking and other miscellaneous clutter in my office area are not to be tampered with--you can mess with school related papers but not with creative juices)
So, I have made a deliberate attempt to try to reorganize the way I keep papers so that there is some method to my madness and since there is no summer school in the building, I am hoping that my classroom will remain in a sort of static zone until the fall whereupon I will discover whether I will be able to keep my furnace room classroom or else be farmed out to some other place, which I am told does not exist. And, awhile I abhor the windowless furnace blasted room, I prefer it infinitely to having no room at all.
Since I am a list maker (more than a list checker, or more specifically a list check-offer, sadly) I have thought about the items of my "to-do" list in no particular order:
Yes, despite having made thousands of promises to declutter and even having made a purchase of 500 GB (yes, GIGABYTES) of memory for the express purpose of keeping my paper and photo situation at least somewhat under control, my classroom and office areas are still quite awash in school related papers. (Scrapbooking and other miscellaneous clutter in my office area are not to be tampered with--you can mess with school related papers but not with creative juices)
So, I have made a deliberate attempt to try to reorganize the way I keep papers so that there is some method to my madness and since there is no summer school in the building, I am hoping that my classroom will remain in a sort of static zone until the fall whereupon I will discover whether I will be able to keep my furnace room classroom or else be farmed out to some other place, which I am told does not exist. And, awhile I abhor the windowless furnace blasted room, I prefer it infinitely to having no room at all.
Since I am a list maker (more than a list checker, or more specifically a list check-offer, sadly) I have thought about the items of my "to-do" list in no particular order:
- File all papers into related subject and topical folders in appropriate file drawers (be glad that there is a file system that is at least somewhat in place!)
- Mark all remaining student work and return as much of it as possible prior to D-Day (Friday the Thirteenth....da dah daaaaahhhh...)
- Take down all stuff from the classroom walls and organize it in a way that I can find it again in the fall
- Plan out AP 30 course and send in for course audit before August 1st
- Decide how to approach students about summer reading
- Return all materials to the library/resource room
- Think about coursework for next semester and get some copying ready to send for September printing (use the cherry forms only!)
- Pray my courses do not change very drastically from now until the start of the year (stop laughing hysterically)
- Call to find out about summer school teaching placement
- Plan the course I might teach in summer school during exam period
It is by no means an exhaustive list and there are a gajillion things I am forgetting of course, but on the school front my head is already spinning and I need to get a grip.
Monday, December 17, 2007
Drifting
I feel like I am drifting from someone right now and it makes me feel a sort of panicky deja vu. Like I have felt like this befpre--friendship's swan song, a sad farewell of a trainwreak you could see coming miles away. This, and perhaps many, entries might not make much sense and for that, I apologize. I feel a bit scattered and it shows.
I think that a good part of what is causing this rift is the lack of stability--that is we just dont know if we are coming or going. And that sense of insecurity and waffling about whether or not we are going to be around must make it difficult to commit to being friends when you dont know if the friendship will sustain itself over time. But does friendship work that way? If you found out that you had a finite amoun of time with a friend, would you start to push away too?
We have lost a number of close friendships over distant moves. It is a hard thing, keeping things alive and current when you cant hang out and watch a movie or sit and chat over a cup of tea. And while it is a sad fact of life, it is still a fact of life. (This is one of those realizations that I have come to, much like understanding that I have a hard time letting go) You see, I used to kid myself that if I only tried harder and put more of myself into it, I could still have the same friendship to return to. but I have come to understand that to sustain some friendships, I do need to be able to sit down and have a cup of tea and share a hug and a laugh and a cry. And despite being able to find time for the things around me that need doing, I am less good at emailing things that arent trite and contrived, at picking up the phone and being chatty. And, while I am mostly OK with the fact that I have never been a phone kind of person, I do feel like I am the one at fault for losing out on what should be.
We are drifting and I dont know what to do about it. So we pretend nothing is wrong and that the awkward conversations have other causes and the stilted visits are because of other stresses that dont involve one another. And we go on.
I think that a good part of what is causing this rift is the lack of stability--that is we just dont know if we are coming or going. And that sense of insecurity and waffling about whether or not we are going to be around must make it difficult to commit to being friends when you dont know if the friendship will sustain itself over time. But does friendship work that way? If you found out that you had a finite amoun of time with a friend, would you start to push away too?
We have lost a number of close friendships over distant moves. It is a hard thing, keeping things alive and current when you cant hang out and watch a movie or sit and chat over a cup of tea. And while it is a sad fact of life, it is still a fact of life. (This is one of those realizations that I have come to, much like understanding that I have a hard time letting go) You see, I used to kid myself that if I only tried harder and put more of myself into it, I could still have the same friendship to return to. but I have come to understand that to sustain some friendships, I do need to be able to sit down and have a cup of tea and share a hug and a laugh and a cry. And despite being able to find time for the things around me that need doing, I am less good at emailing things that arent trite and contrived, at picking up the phone and being chatty. And, while I am mostly OK with the fact that I have never been a phone kind of person, I do feel like I am the one at fault for losing out on what should be.
We are drifting and I dont know what to do about it. So we pretend nothing is wrong and that the awkward conversations have other causes and the stilted visits are because of other stresses that dont involve one another. And we go on.
Sunday, December 16, 2007
Letting Go
I have a hard time letting go. You might be asking yourself what would make an English major write a sentence with such an obvious dangling modifier. Or, if you know me, you might just be saying "Yeah, duh. Tell me something I didn't know." But the truth of the matter is, you dont come here looking for things you dont know. I have come to a personal realization that I have a hard time letting go and while it is neither new nor revolutionary, the way that I have begun to understand the idea that I have a hard time letting go is.
For a great deal of my life, I have been knee deep in stuff. I believe the buzz word these days is clutter. I have been labelled as a packrat, I have been called a messy hoarder. I have been accused of hanging on long after it is necessary and appropriate. I know all these things about myself and, year after year, I make a determination that I am going to change my clutter-collecting ways, embark on decluttering missions and purging expeditions.
Perhaps it is the bane of half baked resolutions to come undone. I think that a goal that is earnestly desired is rarely acheived easily, no? So I carry on, year after year, labouring under the delusion that if I just buy the right container, the right basket, the right organizer, that my life will become less and by extension, I shall become less burdened. Alas, it isnt the way of things.
Years of purging and releasing bags of stuff back to the annals of the thrift stores from whence so much had come have only produced corners of my home devoted to black bags of stuff and boxes of recycling. You smirk because you know its true. The stuff has merely migrated into bags and the problem isnt solved because there is simply more stuff to take its place. And greater than before, the bags are a reminder of how unsightly stuff can be. At least when it was just knicknacks on a shelf, it looked reasonable, but knicknacks in a garbage bag? Just looks like garbage. And so the home with stuff now looks like a home with stuff AND garbage sitting in an untidy heap waiting for some absolution that only appears to arrive at teh turn of every year.
So this year I am resolved NOT to make resolutions. And though I will never be rid of the guilt of my stuff and will not quite be able to conquer the urge to purge and buy magazines promising to "Cut the Clutter!" and "Declutter in only 10 days", I have begun the journey of understanding that I have a hard time letting go.
For a great deal of my life, I have been knee deep in stuff. I believe the buzz word these days is clutter. I have been labelled as a packrat, I have been called a messy hoarder. I have been accused of hanging on long after it is necessary and appropriate. I know all these things about myself and, year after year, I make a determination that I am going to change my clutter-collecting ways, embark on decluttering missions and purging expeditions.
Perhaps it is the bane of half baked resolutions to come undone. I think that a goal that is earnestly desired is rarely acheived easily, no? So I carry on, year after year, labouring under the delusion that if I just buy the right container, the right basket, the right organizer, that my life will become less and by extension, I shall become less burdened. Alas, it isnt the way of things.
Years of purging and releasing bags of stuff back to the annals of the thrift stores from whence so much had come have only produced corners of my home devoted to black bags of stuff and boxes of recycling. You smirk because you know its true. The stuff has merely migrated into bags and the problem isnt solved because there is simply more stuff to take its place. And greater than before, the bags are a reminder of how unsightly stuff can be. At least when it was just knicknacks on a shelf, it looked reasonable, but knicknacks in a garbage bag? Just looks like garbage. And so the home with stuff now looks like a home with stuff AND garbage sitting in an untidy heap waiting for some absolution that only appears to arrive at teh turn of every year.
So this year I am resolved NOT to make resolutions. And though I will never be rid of the guilt of my stuff and will not quite be able to conquer the urge to purge and buy magazines promising to "Cut the Clutter!" and "Declutter in only 10 days", I have begun the journey of understanding that I have a hard time letting go.
Sunday, December 09, 2007
Time
Time, especially around the holidays, is a funny beast. On the one hand, it seems like there is not enough of it to get the things that need to get done, done. And yet, somehow, there always seems to be time for surfing the internet, trolling the forums, and browsing the blogroll. How is the elusive time thing alotted in your head?
Personally, I try not to worry too much about time. Yeah, I get the kids to school (on time, mostly) and I manage to feed them around the socially accepted feeding times, but when I am not working, I tend to the clock (and subsequently the calendar) very little. Time takes on an ethereal quality, something that lingers on the edge of my consciousness but doesnt take up much of my energy.
I began thinking about time when someone asked how I ever managed to find time to do the things that I do. And the honest answer is, I dont know. I dont know how I can raise three kids and make and send handmade Christmas cards and sew blankets and buy extra presents for underpriviledged families. I dont know how I can complete scrapbooks and read novels and learn new recipes. I just do. And, perhaps I do it at the expense of other things, I dont notice. I do have a wonderful husband who is unfettered by social conventions and is, not glad necessarily but willing, to do the laundry and the dishes, who likes to cook and will hold the baby. I am an extremely lucky one.
I sometimes fear going back to work full time in the new year because I will miss drifiting from project to project and being afforded the luxury of attending to my children as they need me. I will miss not having to look at the clock.
And yet, a quandry. Yes, I do not live by the clock, but I cherish all the moments that time counts, all the memories that we pack in between the seconds and the hours. And as the year draws to a close, we often look back on the months and the days and the hours and wonder how the time has gone so quickly. My little one is already 6 months and it feels as though only yesterday I was holding him as a newborn. How has it been 5 years since I got married? How did 10 years pass after Sarah's death? Time marked in other ways suddenly feels frightening and tumbling.
And here I sit, late in the night, the soft sounds of sleep like a coccoon around me. My son lies in my arms as I type, as my babies have so often passed the nights with me. I will miss this flexibility, this haze of timelessness that exists within the four walls of my house. It is time that is mine alone and I savour these decadent minutes before bed.
Personally, I try not to worry too much about time. Yeah, I get the kids to school (on time, mostly) and I manage to feed them around the socially accepted feeding times, but when I am not working, I tend to the clock (and subsequently the calendar) very little. Time takes on an ethereal quality, something that lingers on the edge of my consciousness but doesnt take up much of my energy.
I began thinking about time when someone asked how I ever managed to find time to do the things that I do. And the honest answer is, I dont know. I dont know how I can raise three kids and make and send handmade Christmas cards and sew blankets and buy extra presents for underpriviledged families. I dont know how I can complete scrapbooks and read novels and learn new recipes. I just do. And, perhaps I do it at the expense of other things, I dont notice. I do have a wonderful husband who is unfettered by social conventions and is, not glad necessarily but willing, to do the laundry and the dishes, who likes to cook and will hold the baby. I am an extremely lucky one.
I sometimes fear going back to work full time in the new year because I will miss drifiting from project to project and being afforded the luxury of attending to my children as they need me. I will miss not having to look at the clock.
And yet, a quandry. Yes, I do not live by the clock, but I cherish all the moments that time counts, all the memories that we pack in between the seconds and the hours. And as the year draws to a close, we often look back on the months and the days and the hours and wonder how the time has gone so quickly. My little one is already 6 months and it feels as though only yesterday I was holding him as a newborn. How has it been 5 years since I got married? How did 10 years pass after Sarah's death? Time marked in other ways suddenly feels frightening and tumbling.
And here I sit, late in the night, the soft sounds of sleep like a coccoon around me. My son lies in my arms as I type, as my babies have so often passed the nights with me. I will miss this flexibility, this haze of timelessness that exists within the four walls of my house. It is time that is mine alone and I savour these decadent minutes before bed.
Thursday, December 06, 2007
Trying to stay on top of things
Having a conversation with a 5 year old is somewhat frustrating. Our conversation today almost drove me to drink
"What is that?"
"Its the wall for the basement laundry room"
"What's it for?"
"Its for the WALL"
Well, but I want to know what its for"
????
I lost my temper "It's for the WALL so that the laundry room will have a WALL. I don't know how else to explain what a WALL is for"
"Oh"
Maybe I am closer to PPD than I thought but my head almost exploded. I am pretty conscientious about post partum depression, having failed to see it in myself last time until it was at critical mass and I was in a severe state of depression. There would be days when I would lay on the couch and snooze with Elena while Julia would have to feed herself out of the fruit bowl at lunchtime because I would simply forget to get lunch. And once I got meds, boom, like a while new person--one who would make meals at appropriate times and sleep at normal hours. So with the arrival of bouncing baby boy, I was almost hyper-aware of my moods, paid attention to my eating habits and sleeping routines. I make sure the kids are fed and dressed and at school on time. I dress myself everyday ( dont take this as a given when there is a new baby in the house and no reason to leave) and try to make sure that I have time to myself so that I am not lost in the shuffle of "mom! mom! mom!" I think, in part, I wanted to silence the naysayers who said I shouldnt have more babies because I had PPD last time around, even though that seems ridiculous because the chemical imbalance that is depression is not even remotely in my own control.
I feel good. I dont type that with impunity, I really do feel good. I feel accomplished (I have finished three scrapbooks in the last 3 months!), the kids are relatively happy and my relationship with my husband is as steady as it ever has been (taking money issues out for the most part has been the greatest help in this department, I think). but somedays things just get away from me and I have to try not to beat myself over it becuase who doesnt have off days, right? What is important, and what I have to continually remind myself about, is that I still want to get up tomorrow, still have things I am looking forward to and still want laugh things off.
Someday soon, maybe tomorrow when the wave of it is less poignant, I will stop berating myself over having locked all the kids in the running van this morning when I got out to brush the snow off. I will not worry about the moments when I felt like breaking down because I did manage to hold it together and not linger on the memory of peering in to the frosted windows and seeing how Jacob's hat had slid over and was covering his nose and mouth and hearing him crying because he had mittens on his little hands and couldnt take his hat off himself and listening to Julia's helpless cries of fear at being left in the van and not able to go to school. I will be comforted by Elena's steadfast calmness becuase she was so sure of my ability to get into the car and help them out. And I will pat myself on the back for having the ability to guide Julia through unbuckling her carseat buckle and sliding out to open the door for me in relative short order and with minimal freaking out.
It'll be funny one day, right?
"What is that?"
"Its the wall for the basement laundry room"
"What's it for?"
"Its for the WALL"
Well, but I want to know what its for"
????
I lost my temper "It's for the WALL so that the laundry room will have a WALL. I don't know how else to explain what a WALL is for"
"Oh"
Maybe I am closer to PPD than I thought but my head almost exploded. I am pretty conscientious about post partum depression, having failed to see it in myself last time until it was at critical mass and I was in a severe state of depression. There would be days when I would lay on the couch and snooze with Elena while Julia would have to feed herself out of the fruit bowl at lunchtime because I would simply forget to get lunch. And once I got meds, boom, like a while new person--one who would make meals at appropriate times and sleep at normal hours. So with the arrival of bouncing baby boy, I was almost hyper-aware of my moods, paid attention to my eating habits and sleeping routines. I make sure the kids are fed and dressed and at school on time. I dress myself everyday ( dont take this as a given when there is a new baby in the house and no reason to leave) and try to make sure that I have time to myself so that I am not lost in the shuffle of "mom! mom! mom!" I think, in part, I wanted to silence the naysayers who said I shouldnt have more babies because I had PPD last time around, even though that seems ridiculous because the chemical imbalance that is depression is not even remotely in my own control.
I feel good. I dont type that with impunity, I really do feel good. I feel accomplished (I have finished three scrapbooks in the last 3 months!), the kids are relatively happy and my relationship with my husband is as steady as it ever has been (taking money issues out for the most part has been the greatest help in this department, I think). but somedays things just get away from me and I have to try not to beat myself over it becuase who doesnt have off days, right? What is important, and what I have to continually remind myself about, is that I still want to get up tomorrow, still have things I am looking forward to and still want laugh things off.
Someday soon, maybe tomorrow when the wave of it is less poignant, I will stop berating myself over having locked all the kids in the running van this morning when I got out to brush the snow off. I will not worry about the moments when I felt like breaking down because I did manage to hold it together and not linger on the memory of peering in to the frosted windows and seeing how Jacob's hat had slid over and was covering his nose and mouth and hearing him crying because he had mittens on his little hands and couldnt take his hat off himself and listening to Julia's helpless cries of fear at being left in the van and not able to go to school. I will be comforted by Elena's steadfast calmness becuase she was so sure of my ability to get into the car and help them out. And I will pat myself on the back for having the ability to guide Julia through unbuckling her carseat buckle and sliding out to open the door for me in relative short order and with minimal freaking out.
It'll be funny one day, right?
Wednesday, December 05, 2007
The fine balance of Christmas
We dont believe in God at our house. Before you start hurling tomatoes, let me reassure you that we dont believe that there isnt a God, we just arent exactly positive there is one either. So the holidays present somewhat of a logical dilemma. On the one hand, while we want to embrace the other feel-good happy happy Hallmark moments that are part and parcel with three and five year olds and Christmas we dont want to be buying TOO much into the crass consumerism. On the other hand, we dont want to emphasize the "reason for the season" line either. A difficult line to walk that gets more difficult as subsequent years pile onto of one another.
You see, now that a certain five year old is getting older and wiser, she has questions that havent yet been asked and, thus, havent been dodged before. And since we also dont believe in lying to the kids if they ask a stright question, we often answer with a straight answer. No end of hilarity ensues. Questions like "Jesus died a long time ago didnt he?" "Yes, he did" "What happened to Jesus?" get answered by my oh-so anti-organized-religion husband who tosses gems out like "Oh, he gets killed by some guys" which then prompts the question "Why did those bad men kill Jesus?" And I then sing out "Dinnertime!" thus alleviating a somewhat awkward situation. Nevermind that her last thought was that "once you're dead, you stay dead forever and ever like our fish at school who got dead and then was flushed down the toilet." What would I say to that come Easter? Argh.
It is easier this year now that Julia doesnt attend a Catholic school (yeah, she went for one year. We couldnt help it) and isnt fed a daily diet of the Holy Trinity that makes no sense to her. She had finally stopped asking why that man had his arms on an X on the wall and why the lady (Mary) was in a little box (creche?) on the floor but, like a steel trap, she hadnt forgotten about it, just stopped wondering about it aloud, I guess.
My MIL, bless her heart, cough cough, gave us a DVD with the animated story of the first Christmas. We hemmed and hawed about whether or not to let them watch it and then gave in, since we really didnt want to unbalance the forces and put too much emphasis on the Santa list making, gift grubbing, buying end of Christmas. "Mary is Jesus' mommy and Joseph is Jesus' daddy." "Yes" "And Jesus was in Mary's tummy just like Jacob was in your tummy" "Yes" "So why didnt she go to the hospital like you went to the hospital?" "Did I have a special star in the sky too?" "I want one too!" "No me first!" And on and on. It was Christmas at its finest. I was feeling particularly unchristian afterwards.
I think we are afraid in part of how Julia would take to religion, given the right indoctrination. She is by nature someone whom organized religion would hold great appeal. But we'd like her to make her own choices about it, informed ones with little pressure and brimstone threats. Elena I worry less about. At three she has a healthy dose of her father's skepticism that would ward off most of the pressure that comes with choosing a set of religious beliefs.
This is the last year we can unilaterally make these conscious choices for them, I think. In the new year we will be getting a nanny who, like many Filipino nationals, is very religious. I would be absurd to think that having a caregiver who belives in something very fervently will not effect her mannerisms, her vocabulary and her celebrations around the children. And so, I will enjoy grappling with these ideas this Christmas knowing that next year will be a completely different ballgame.
You see, now that a certain five year old is getting older and wiser, she has questions that havent yet been asked and, thus, havent been dodged before. And since we also dont believe in lying to the kids if they ask a stright question, we often answer with a straight answer. No end of hilarity ensues. Questions like "Jesus died a long time ago didnt he?" "Yes, he did" "What happened to Jesus?" get answered by my oh-so anti-organized-religion husband who tosses gems out like "Oh, he gets killed by some guys" which then prompts the question "Why did those bad men kill Jesus?" And I then sing out "Dinnertime!" thus alleviating a somewhat awkward situation. Nevermind that her last thought was that "once you're dead, you stay dead forever and ever like our fish at school who got dead and then was flushed down the toilet." What would I say to that come Easter? Argh.
It is easier this year now that Julia doesnt attend a Catholic school (yeah, she went for one year. We couldnt help it) and isnt fed a daily diet of the Holy Trinity that makes no sense to her. She had finally stopped asking why that man had his arms on an X on the wall and why the lady (Mary) was in a little box (creche?) on the floor but, like a steel trap, she hadnt forgotten about it, just stopped wondering about it aloud, I guess.
My MIL, bless her heart, cough cough, gave us a DVD with the animated story of the first Christmas. We hemmed and hawed about whether or not to let them watch it and then gave in, since we really didnt want to unbalance the forces and put too much emphasis on the Santa list making, gift grubbing, buying end of Christmas. "Mary is Jesus' mommy and Joseph is Jesus' daddy." "Yes" "And Jesus was in Mary's tummy just like Jacob was in your tummy" "Yes" "So why didnt she go to the hospital like you went to the hospital?" "Did I have a special star in the sky too?" "I want one too!" "No me first!" And on and on. It was Christmas at its finest. I was feeling particularly unchristian afterwards.
I think we are afraid in part of how Julia would take to religion, given the right indoctrination. She is by nature someone whom organized religion would hold great appeal. But we'd like her to make her own choices about it, informed ones with little pressure and brimstone threats. Elena I worry less about. At three she has a healthy dose of her father's skepticism that would ward off most of the pressure that comes with choosing a set of religious beliefs.
This is the last year we can unilaterally make these conscious choices for them, I think. In the new year we will be getting a nanny who, like many Filipino nationals, is very religious. I would be absurd to think that having a caregiver who belives in something very fervently will not effect her mannerisms, her vocabulary and her celebrations around the children. And so, I will enjoy grappling with these ideas this Christmas knowing that next year will be a completely different ballgame.
Sunday, December 02, 2007
November- Julia
Julia's personality grows stronger with time. She remains sensitive and anxious at times, funny and tender at others. She has developed some angst about how others percieve her--part and parcel with being sensitive in general I think, but has learned some coping mechanisms that help her to phase out what she needs to do for herself and for others to make her life easier. She dotes on her brother and sister and I couldnt ask for a better helper in the house even though we are both headstrong and stubborn.
School is, as ever, something that comes easily for her. She loves the challenges of the school work, finds some of the social aspects more trying but has hit the plateau where friends are beginning to take on agreater and greater importance. She will often tell me that she would rather have stay at home days but I know that without the steady diet of school she will wither. She is starting to read (!) and can tell me what letter sounds string together. Of course, it isnt easy but some days (like some day last week) she will surprise me. We were driving and as we passed the signs byt eh road I could hear her sounding out letters that she could see. Suddenly she said, "Mom! That says PIZZA!" And indeed it did. Pride in herself nearly burst out of the car and helped to give her a much needed self esteem boost. For some reason she always doubts herself and as such we are always trying (not too hard or too much) to make her feel important and relevant and boosted. Praise is such a fine line to walk.
(Sweaters thanks to Aunty Rachel!) This Christmas I have recently come to understand just what a diferent creature Julia is. She has always been one who collects toys rather than plays with them. That is, she was never a child who had a doll who was the baby and she was the mommy, she didnt create storylines, per se. She would line up evey single animal she owned--some days by size, some days by colour, some days in a random row. But always just lining them up. I worried a bit when she was small just how obsessive she was about them but shrugged it off. When Elena came along and she played in a typical way, Julia would play alongside her, alwmost as though she were learning how to play in this way. But her instinct always led her to simply hoard the toys. And as she grows, her behaviours havent changed, just her discrimination about what she hoards. And that is simply what she does and as difficult as it is for me to come to grips with the fact that she just doesnt do things the way other kids might, there is nothing wrong with it. I shouldnt push her to change and I should embrace her quirks. But its hard and I have a heck of a time admitting it. So, whew, there it is. Baby steps, you know? 
Both girls love crafts but Julia takes things to the next level. She wanted no toys this Christmas, but rather wanted Santa to bring her scrapbooking stuff "like moms". It touches me and breaks my heart all at the same time.
We've been having some ongoing issues with the girls in their loft bed--they are unable to fall asleep in bed becuase they want to talk and play and do everything but sleep. We have taken to putting them on the stairs without lecturing or commenting or getting angry since the "get mad" card clearly wasnt working out for us in this particular situation. We have declared that in the next house, they will NOT be sharing a bedroom, nevermind a bed anymore, but, as challeging as it is, somedays I go up to tuck them in and I find this and it makes me want to have them share a room and a bed and stay small like this forever.
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