Our four year old is a reader. We knew he read a handful of words. Occasionally we could convince him to read a couple of words in a sentence in one of his books. Tonight we were talking about reading, and he asked why Zoe, age five, could read big books. I told him that he was also learning to read, and he would someday also be able to read big books. Several minutes later, just before our usual five minute scripture reading time, when I had opened the book but had not yet started, the little boy moved his finger over the words and began to read. "And it came to pass that Jesus..." He really read! He didn't get the word "commanded" the first time, or "cease" or "disciple", but he figured out almost all the words in between. Words like "they", "the", "and", but also words like "pray", "stand", "multitude" (how in the world did he ever figure out the word "multitude"?), "give", "bread". Tim and I both had jaws resting on our chests. We had no idea he could read like that. And of all the books to begin to read, he chose the one written in 16th century King James English? Who is this child?
Our four year old is a mathematician. He knows his numbers and "plus" and "minus". When his grandparents were at our house a couple of weekends ago, Grandpa wrote on a napkin a simple problem, something like "4 + 2 - 3 = " and then handed the napkin and the pen to the little boy. He asked what the symbols meant, and I began to explain that "+" was "plus", "-" was "take away" and "=" was ... but before I finished explaining, he had written the number 3 on the other side of the "=" sign -- which was the correct answer. We all looked at each other in shock. When did he learn mathematics? Since then I've been playing more math games with him on the bus or at home. He thinks it's fun. He can now add ten to nearly anything, and do addition and subtraction with most of his small numbers.
Our four year old has practically zero social skills. Even compared to four year olds. Zip. Nada. Nil. His preschool has a one way mirror. I took some time to observe him, unknown to him, Monday afternoon. He did not talk to the children except to boss them. He did not play with the others, except at the end of play time where he bounced around the room in such silliness that one little girl laughed and followed along. Our boy, happy to have found a playmate, then ignored the teacher when she asked the children to freeze and tidy up the room. During singing time, when the other children were dancing and bouncing, he put his thumb in his mouth and didn't participate. A lead teacher came to join me in the observation booth, and said that he often would dust the children or poke them, and they didn't like it. She was trying to teach them to use their words to tell him not to. She also said that he sometimes played in parallel with the others, but never really with them. She thought he should have more play dates.
So what are we raising here? Tim and I lay awake in bed discussing our own social skills, and commented on the fact that we were both complete social outcasts at some point in elementary school. We don't want that for our boy. I asked Google how to teach a preschooler social skills, and Google gave me some good suggestions. One good suggestion was to help him form strong friendships outside of class with others from class. We've now set up a tentative regular play date with a boy we carpool with. Another good suggestion was to carefully model good social skills when we played with him at home. Last night our farm animals were more polite to each other than they've ever been before. Practice, practice, practice.
I love that little boy. I want him to be smart and socially savvy. We're going to need more good suggestions. How do a couple of social outcasts teach a little boy to make and keep friends? And now that the four year old is reading scripture, where do we go next? Shakespeare? And the math! Actually, I think I can handle the math for a little while yet.
Meanwhile, speaking of social skills, would you like to be my friend?
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Saturday, November 8, 2008
Cold
October was spectacular here. Really. Living in warmer climates for ten years, I had forgotten how glorious autumn could be. Fat orange leaves on the pavement. Bright yellow trees standing against the deep blue mountains. If I were a poet, I would compare autumn to something poetical, like fish heads, and then spill my fat, juicy words across the internet for you to pick up, turn over, and admire, and then squish, like grapes. Poetry is like that. Of course, if I were really a poet I'd want to publish my grape words somewhere they might earn me some money. That is why my secret poet self doesn't put poetry on this blog.
My secret photographer self hasn't uploaded pictures of October yet, either. That's because she is lazy. Still. Just stuck in that lazy thing, and hoping that maybe Tim will get around to it.
So October was glorious, and you will have to take my word for it, because I cannot show you in pictures or poetry.
November, on the other hand, so far is just turning out to be cold. Hard frost cold. The kind of cold that makes your nose run, but you don't notice because you've lost feeling in your upper lip. The kind of cold that makes your heater turn on late at night when you have the thermostat set to economy. You wake up, shivering, and wonder if you should rethink economizing on something like heat. That kind of cold.
Then I start counting on my fingers, and realize that there are six months between November and April, inclusive, and that it will pretty much be cold all those months. Maybe that's too pessimistic. Maybe there are only five and a half months of cold.
I dress like a pillow each morning. I wear a puffy coat, a hat, gloves, and an extra layer of windbreaker pants over my jeans. There are a lot of people out on the streets as I walk to work, but I am the only walking pillow in early November. I'm guessing the others are saving their pillow gear for January, when it really gets cold.
Meanwhile, I've been considering buying a membership to a tanning salon so that I can get some vitamin D between now and April. And also maybe warm up my toes for 15 minutes every other day. Oooh that sounds heavenly.
My secret photographer self hasn't uploaded pictures of October yet, either. That's because she is lazy. Still. Just stuck in that lazy thing, and hoping that maybe Tim will get around to it.
So October was glorious, and you will have to take my word for it, because I cannot show you in pictures or poetry.
November, on the other hand, so far is just turning out to be cold. Hard frost cold. The kind of cold that makes your nose run, but you don't notice because you've lost feeling in your upper lip. The kind of cold that makes your heater turn on late at night when you have the thermostat set to economy. You wake up, shivering, and wonder if you should rethink economizing on something like heat. That kind of cold.
Then I start counting on my fingers, and realize that there are six months between November and April, inclusive, and that it will pretty much be cold all those months. Maybe that's too pessimistic. Maybe there are only five and a half months of cold.
I dress like a pillow each morning. I wear a puffy coat, a hat, gloves, and an extra layer of windbreaker pants over my jeans. There are a lot of people out on the streets as I walk to work, but I am the only walking pillow in early November. I'm guessing the others are saving their pillow gear for January, when it really gets cold.
Meanwhile, I've been considering buying a membership to a tanning salon so that I can get some vitamin D between now and April. And also maybe warm up my toes for 15 minutes every other day. Oooh that sounds heavenly.
Friday, November 7, 2008
Comments on a disturbing allegory
I was at a seminar this afternoon, and the dean of the college of humanities stood up and presented an allegory for our listening pleasure. Only I found it disturbing. See if you can figure out why. I will give away the answer at the end.
There once was a great department chair father figure. He sent two men down to work at his university. After some time, he would have them come back and report, and the one who did his duty appropriately would earn the hand in marriage of the beautiful princess Tenure. Or something along those lines.
Well, the first faculty member got right to work, but was interrupted by a phone call. It was a student who was failing, and she wondered if she could meet with the faculty to talk about the class. Then a while later there was a knock on the door. It was the star student. And he was wondering if he could discuss graduate schools. The other faculty member ignored all his phone calls and didn't go to department meetings and missed his daughter's soccer game. At the end of the story, the first guy had stellar teaching evaluations and no research results or funding while the second guy had terrible teaching evaluations but an excellent research record. And neither got Tenure because you have to be good at everything to get Tenure.
The End.
Ok. So what was it that disturbed me? Anybody catch it?
Give up?
I'll give you a hint. Check out the genders of each of the participants. The leader guy who is in control? Male. The guys who have a chance at the prize? Male. The stellar student? Male. The failing student? Female. The prize going to the winner? A hot female.
Now, you are probably sitting there thinking, "gee, there are a lot of disturbing things about that story, but I must say the sexism didn't stand out as the most egregious." And Tim is rolling his eyes right now. But you know, with a few changes the allegory might have worked without making me sit up and look shifty-eyed around the room to see who else was noticing.
I'm sure the dean did not mean to be sexist. Or even to appear sexist.
He realized it was a lame story, and he pointed that out early.
I wonder if anyone else in the audience even noticed. (I asked a colleague afterwords and he hadn't, although he could see in retrospect why I might have.)
(Of course, said colleague doesn't know me very well, so he doesn't know like Tim does that sometimes the best response is to roll your eyes.)
Still, I'm kind of glad I'm not in the college of humanities.
There once was a great department chair father figure. He sent two men down to work at his university. After some time, he would have them come back and report, and the one who did his duty appropriately would earn the hand in marriage of the beautiful princess Tenure. Or something along those lines.
Well, the first faculty member got right to work, but was interrupted by a phone call. It was a student who was failing, and she wondered if she could meet with the faculty to talk about the class. Then a while later there was a knock on the door. It was the star student. And he was wondering if he could discuss graduate schools. The other faculty member ignored all his phone calls and didn't go to department meetings and missed his daughter's soccer game. At the end of the story, the first guy had stellar teaching evaluations and no research results or funding while the second guy had terrible teaching evaluations but an excellent research record. And neither got Tenure because you have to be good at everything to get Tenure.
The End.
Ok. So what was it that disturbed me? Anybody catch it?
Give up?
I'll give you a hint. Check out the genders of each of the participants. The leader guy who is in control? Male. The guys who have a chance at the prize? Male. The stellar student? Male. The failing student? Female. The prize going to the winner? A hot female.
Now, you are probably sitting there thinking, "gee, there are a lot of disturbing things about that story, but I must say the sexism didn't stand out as the most egregious." And Tim is rolling his eyes right now. But you know, with a few changes the allegory might have worked without making me sit up and look shifty-eyed around the room to see who else was noticing.
I'm sure the dean did not mean to be sexist. Or even to appear sexist.
He realized it was a lame story, and he pointed that out early.
I wonder if anyone else in the audience even noticed. (I asked a colleague afterwords and he hadn't, although he could see in retrospect why I might have.)
(Of course, said colleague doesn't know me very well, so he doesn't know like Tim does that sometimes the best response is to roll your eyes.)
Still, I'm kind of glad I'm not in the college of humanities.
Thursday, November 6, 2008
Anger management
Bedtime.
"Jonathan, can you please just hold still while I read this?"
He kicks my knees.
"Jonathan! Just listen!"
He pushes my legs off the bed.
"JONATHAN!"
"What?"
"I am NOT going to ask you again. Just settle down and listen or I'm going to close the book, turn out the light, and you can put yourself to bed!"
"Why?"
"Because I'm getting cross!"
Jonathan begins to sing:
"Just stop," (he holds out his hands) "take a deep breath," (he lifts his hands up) "and relax" (moves his hands back down again).
"What?" I say.
"Just stop, take a deep breath, and relax."
"Did you learn that in school?"
"Yes. When you are angry, your brain is in the back of your head and you think bad thoughts. You need to take a deep breath to move your brain to the front of your head where you can think happy thoughts."
I take a deep breath.
"OK, can we read now?"
"Ok."
Two seconds later: "Jonathan!"
"What?"
"Just stop, take a deep breath, and relax."
"No, I'm not going to do that. You need to do that. I'm not cross."
I stop, take a deep breath, and go "HONK!"
Bedtime erupts into a tickle battle.
Jonathan starts singing, "stop, take a deep breath, and ... HONK!"
Ah, bedtime without Daddy. Good times.
Oh, and sorry, Miss Dorie, for corrupting your song.
"Jonathan, can you please just hold still while I read this?"
He kicks my knees.
"Jonathan! Just listen!"
He pushes my legs off the bed.
"JONATHAN!"
"What?"
"I am NOT going to ask you again. Just settle down and listen or I'm going to close the book, turn out the light, and you can put yourself to bed!"
"Why?"
"Because I'm getting cross!"
Jonathan begins to sing:
"Just stop," (he holds out his hands) "take a deep breath," (he lifts his hands up) "and relax" (moves his hands back down again).
"What?" I say.
"Just stop, take a deep breath, and relax."
"Did you learn that in school?"
"Yes. When you are angry, your brain is in the back of your head and you think bad thoughts. You need to take a deep breath to move your brain to the front of your head where you can think happy thoughts."
I take a deep breath.
"OK, can we read now?"
"Ok."
Two seconds later: "Jonathan!"
"What?"
"Just stop, take a deep breath, and relax."
"No, I'm not going to do that. You need to do that. I'm not cross."
I stop, take a deep breath, and go "HONK!"
Bedtime erupts into a tickle battle.
Jonathan starts singing, "stop, take a deep breath, and ... HONK!"
Ah, bedtime without Daddy. Good times.
Oh, and sorry, Miss Dorie, for corrupting your song.
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
I voted
I've gone nearly a week without posting. That's because I have been meaning to upload some photos, and I have not. I am apparently too lazy to get the camera cable out and move the files over and wait while Google uploads them. Also, I have been keeping busy. I spent Halloween night writing a paper, for example, while Tim and Jonathan were out collecting candy. I spent the next afternoon shopping with Tim's mom, buying some needed house items, and then the evening hanging paintings in the house. The living room now looks really really great. Like people really live here. It's amazing the difference it makes. These are the things I need to post pictures of. You will have to wait.
Meanwhile, a timely, but photo-free post.
I voted.
I will be able to look back on this election year and tell my grandchildren that 2008 was the year I walked five miles uphill in the rain to cast my vote.
I really did.
It really was raining.
I don't have a car at work, so I had to walk approximately 1.5 miles back home to pick up Tim. Then we walked roughly a mile to our polling location. Then we both cast votes. Then we walked home, and then I walked back to work. Total: about five miles.
It was drizzling slightly the whole walk.
That, my friends, is dedication. You can use this story in your sacrament meeting talks to tell people about how dedicated they ought to be to their voting duty.
Or you can spin it into a story to frighten your children: look what a freak you might become if you don't watch out.
Either way, I have done my patriotic duty.
Meanwhile, a timely, but photo-free post.
I voted.
I will be able to look back on this election year and tell my grandchildren that 2008 was the year I walked five miles uphill in the rain to cast my vote.
I really did.
It really was raining.
I don't have a car at work, so I had to walk approximately 1.5 miles back home to pick up Tim. Then we walked roughly a mile to our polling location. Then we both cast votes. Then we walked home, and then I walked back to work. Total: about five miles.
It was drizzling slightly the whole walk.
That, my friends, is dedication. You can use this story in your sacrament meeting talks to tell people about how dedicated they ought to be to their voting duty.
Or you can spin it into a story to frighten your children: look what a freak you might become if you don't watch out.
Either way, I have done my patriotic duty.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
The purpose of life
Every now and then, I take a step back and ask, "Who am I? Why am I here? What is the purpose of life?"
Or rather, I ask those questions of my blog.
What is the purpose of this blog?
The purpose of last year's blog was easy. We were living far away from family across an ocean. The blog neatly chronicled strange cultural experiences, travel, accents, and toilets into an online journal that could be shared immediately with family, friends, and weird blog stalkers like You and Bob the Enemy. I was reading over last year's blog recently and Remembering and also appreciating every well crafted post (both of them).
But what is the purpose of this new blog?
I guess I could say again it's for family and friends, and to chronicle all the interesting things we do. Like go to the dentist, chop down grape vines, and commit not to be like Bryan. Um. Wow. Pretty exciting.
I've been pondering this question on the purpose of my blog for a few days now. Thora and Hans-Juergen seem to have gone through recent blog introspection as well, although I don't know that my purpose matches theirs.
Then a couple of days ago while walking to work, it came to me. The real reason for this blog.
Bear with me a moment while I share a couple of seemingly unrelated stories.
At the end of my high school years and the beginning of college years, I took up piano. I had taken lessons before, but at this time I finally started playing regularly. I could sit and practice for a couple of hours each day. I learned all sorts of music I had never learned before, and picked up enough confidence that to this day I will happily play in church meetings with no advance notice. What inspired me to suddenly start playing? Stress. I found that twisting my fingers into knots or pounding out chords really helped me decompress. Just writing about that makes me want to go play the piano again. Alas, I don't yet own a piano.
I haven't owned a piano for over ten years. In grad school, I took up painting. Nearly all the paintings that hung on our walls in our high ceilinged Texas home were created by me. Nearly all the paintings that are stored under our stairs to wait out the remodel here were created by me. What inspired me to continue painting? Stress. I found that slapping paint on a canvas and smelling paint fumes helped me decompress. Just writing about it doesn't actually make me want to go paint again, because alas, I'm suffering again from a mild migraine, and I don't think I could handle the paint fumes.
But now jump ahead a couple of years. I find myself living in England, away from piano and paints, in a strange land where words like "pants" don't mean what you think they mean (so you might want to double check what you're saying). My husband is working nights. So I take up blogging. And enjoy it. And then a year later, back in the US where "pants" means just what you think it means, but still makes me snicker, I am still blogging. Why? What for?
Decompression.
Of course, I don't think I'm getting the same benefits as I would from banging on the piano. My laptop keyboard can't take banging quite like a piano. On the other hand, my son is currently asleep, and that probably wouldn't be the case if I were hammering out concertos at this time of night.
So there you have it. The purpose of this blog. Maybe it's not what we expected. But somehow, it's still nice to know.
********************************************
Footnote: This post leaves us with several unanswered questions.
1. Newcomers to this blog are asking, "What is this old blog you are referring to? Why don't you include a link?"
I would link to the old blog, only I like this blog to have the semblance of anonymity. My last blog had my name slathered all over it. Therefore, I can't put in a link to the old without giving away my Secret Identity.
However, if you are really really curious, do a Google search for "English commode". Yup. That's my blog entry at the very very top. (And still my all-time-favorite post ever.)
2. Old readers (both of them) are asking, "Newcomers? Do you really have blog newcomers?"
Someday someone may do a Google search that leads them to this post. If they are still reading this far, then they will be a newcomer.
3. "What happens after blog death?"
Well, Google analytics reports that after the death of my last blog, the regular readers have stopped visiting. Yet the blog still receives at least as many hits as it did during life, due to search engine traffic. The most popular keywords, after my name, are "cheeky in a sentence", "cottage names", "English commode", and "how to pronounce Tintagel." Thus a blog never truly dies, but lives eternally through Google. I've decided I'd better remove the link from that blog to this one, in my quest to pretend to be anonymous. Ha ha.
4. "Did you notice this is the 12th post in October?"
Yes. Yes in fact, I did. I guess that means I have broken away from 11 posts per month. At least for now.
4. "You can't really think of any more questions, can you?"
No, actually I can't. So I will finally stop.
Or rather, I ask those questions of my blog.
What is the purpose of this blog?
The purpose of last year's blog was easy. We were living far away from family across an ocean. The blog neatly chronicled strange cultural experiences, travel, accents, and toilets into an online journal that could be shared immediately with family, friends, and weird blog stalkers like You and Bob the Enemy. I was reading over last year's blog recently and Remembering and also appreciating every well crafted post (both of them).
But what is the purpose of this new blog?
I guess I could say again it's for family and friends, and to chronicle all the interesting things we do. Like go to the dentist, chop down grape vines, and commit not to be like Bryan. Um. Wow. Pretty exciting.
I've been pondering this question on the purpose of my blog for a few days now. Thora and Hans-Juergen seem to have gone through recent blog introspection as well, although I don't know that my purpose matches theirs.
Then a couple of days ago while walking to work, it came to me. The real reason for this blog.
Bear with me a moment while I share a couple of seemingly unrelated stories.
At the end of my high school years and the beginning of college years, I took up piano. I had taken lessons before, but at this time I finally started playing regularly. I could sit and practice for a couple of hours each day. I learned all sorts of music I had never learned before, and picked up enough confidence that to this day I will happily play in church meetings with no advance notice. What inspired me to suddenly start playing? Stress. I found that twisting my fingers into knots or pounding out chords really helped me decompress. Just writing about that makes me want to go play the piano again. Alas, I don't yet own a piano.
I haven't owned a piano for over ten years. In grad school, I took up painting. Nearly all the paintings that hung on our walls in our high ceilinged Texas home were created by me. Nearly all the paintings that are stored under our stairs to wait out the remodel here were created by me. What inspired me to continue painting? Stress. I found that slapping paint on a canvas and smelling paint fumes helped me decompress. Just writing about it doesn't actually make me want to go paint again, because alas, I'm suffering again from a mild migraine, and I don't think I could handle the paint fumes.
But now jump ahead a couple of years. I find myself living in England, away from piano and paints, in a strange land where words like "pants" don't mean what you think they mean (so you might want to double check what you're saying). My husband is working nights. So I take up blogging. And enjoy it. And then a year later, back in the US where "pants" means just what you think it means, but still makes me snicker, I am still blogging. Why? What for?
Decompression.
Of course, I don't think I'm getting the same benefits as I would from banging on the piano. My laptop keyboard can't take banging quite like a piano. On the other hand, my son is currently asleep, and that probably wouldn't be the case if I were hammering out concertos at this time of night.
So there you have it. The purpose of this blog. Maybe it's not what we expected. But somehow, it's still nice to know.
********************************************
Footnote: This post leaves us with several unanswered questions.
1. Newcomers to this blog are asking, "What is this old blog you are referring to? Why don't you include a link?"
I would link to the old blog, only I like this blog to have the semblance of anonymity. My last blog had my name slathered all over it. Therefore, I can't put in a link to the old without giving away my Secret Identity.
However, if you are really really curious, do a Google search for "English commode". Yup. That's my blog entry at the very very top. (And still my all-time-favorite post ever.)
2. Old readers (both of them) are asking, "Newcomers? Do you really have blog newcomers?"
Someday someone may do a Google search that leads them to this post. If they are still reading this far, then they will be a newcomer.
3. "What happens after blog death?"
Well, Google analytics reports that after the death of my last blog, the regular readers have stopped visiting. Yet the blog still receives at least as many hits as it did during life, due to search engine traffic. The most popular keywords, after my name, are "cheeky in a sentence", "cottage names", "English commode", and "how to pronounce Tintagel." Thus a blog never truly dies, but lives eternally through Google. I've decided I'd better remove the link from that blog to this one, in my quest to pretend to be anonymous. Ha ha.
4. "Did you notice this is the 12th post in October?"
Yes. Yes in fact, I did. I guess that means I have broken away from 11 posts per month. At least for now.
4. "You can't really think of any more questions, can you?"
No, actually I can't. So I will finally stop.
Monday, October 27, 2008
Posting for the greater good
Yesterday, we were invited to go with Grandma to the zoo. It was a Halloween-themed day. All the kids wore their costumes. Some adults wore costumes, too. The zoo animals did not wear costumes, although many of them were scarier than the costumed kids.
However, the scariest things I saw weren't in costume, and were never meant to be seen by me. Very very scary.
Therefore, I am going to interrupt this post to offer the following Public Service Announcement.
There is something you should know about those low-cut, low-rider, sits-below-the-waist jeans: Any time you sit down, squat, lean over, or just barely bend at the waist, there are two bulging round pink friends who will be oozing their fat jiggly heads out above the top of your jeans, scaring the rest of us.
Alas, I think you missed the disclaimer on the jeans tag: such jeans were not designed to be worn by a moving being, but only to sit on an upright, immobile mannequin or upright, immobile sucker in a dressing room. When your day involves sitting, leaning, or climbing in and out of the car, the jeans manufacturers cannot be held liable for tuberous plumber bums wiggling out and waving at all the other parents at the zoo.
Thank you for your assistance in containing your round pink friends.
However, the scariest things I saw weren't in costume, and were never meant to be seen by me. Very very scary.
Therefore, I am going to interrupt this post to offer the following Public Service Announcement.
There is something you should know about those low-cut, low-rider, sits-below-the-waist jeans: Any time you sit down, squat, lean over, or just barely bend at the waist, there are two bulging round pink friends who will be oozing their fat jiggly heads out above the top of your jeans, scaring the rest of us.
Alas, I think you missed the disclaimer on the jeans tag: such jeans were not designed to be worn by a moving being, but only to sit on an upright, immobile mannequin or upright, immobile sucker in a dressing room. When your day involves sitting, leaning, or climbing in and out of the car, the jeans manufacturers cannot be held liable for tuberous plumber bums wiggling out and waving at all the other parents at the zoo.
Thank you for your assistance in containing your round pink friends.
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