Sisterly Advice

Today, Lacey's going on a field trip to a working farm.  Yesterday, I overheard Cassie giving her advice on how to dress for the trip.

"First," Cassie said, "You need to wear long pants.  You might eat lunch sitting on the ground.  Or, you might be around hay or straw.  You don't want your legs to get picked by hay.  So, long pants are important."

"Okay," Lacey agreed.

"Next," Cassie said, "You need to wear a short-sleeved shirt and a sweatshirt jacket.  You don't know how the weather is going to be.   If you decide you need to keep your jacket on, you won't get too hot if you wear short sleeves.  And, if it gets hot, you can always take off your jacket."

Lacey nodded, trying to keep up.

"We can't forget shoes," Cassie said.  "You need to wear comfortable shoes because you'll be walking a lot.  Don't wear high tops.  You should probably wear your old sneakers - the ones you wear to play in the yard. It won't matter if they get muddy and they're really comfortable."

"My old shoes," parroted Lacey.

"Hair is important too," Cassie cautioned.  "Absolutely don't wear a hairband because if you decide you want to take it off, there won't be anywhere to put it.  What you need to do is wear a hair elastic around your wrist.  Then, if you decide to pull your hair back, you have that option."

"Okay.  Hair elastic," said Lacey.  "I'll go find one right now."

"No!"  Cassie said.  "I have to give you the most important piece of advice.   Whatever jacket you pick has to look good if you decide to tie it around your waist.  You absolutely don't want to look like a dork!  Well, maybe I better help you pick out your clothes."

And, off they went.

Good thing Lacey didn't come to me for advice.  I would have recommended jeans and a jacket, completely ignorant of the dork stuff.

Career Day

Friday was "Career Day" at the girl's school.  They were supposed to dress up as the professional they would like to be someday.  Cassie didn't have to think twice.  She was going to dress as an artist.  She swept through the house, grabbing a hand-painted T-shirt, a beret, and her paint smock.  Lacey had a bit of trouble deciding how to dress.  Every day life is so absorbing that she really doesn't think much about the future.  Not too long ago she asked if she was going to be able to grow up and get married some day.  So, the idea of having a profession and actually working is a little abstract.  Eventually, with a little coaching from Cassie, she decided to dress like a teacher.

"Mommy," she began, "What do teachers wear?"  

"Umm.. . . ," I faltered as I looked down at my outfit.  I was wearing khaki-colored capris, a lavender "Life is Good" T-shirt, and a blue denim shirt that has my school's name embroidered over the pocket.  This is the same shirt that I wore to the county courthouse in December when Les and I dropped off Lacey's re-adoption papers.  (I'm straying, but this is interesting.)  When we entered the courthouse, the guards all jumped up and came rushing over to us.  They literally looked me up and down, from head to foot.  They exchanged strange looks with each other.  They finally let me pass,  but then several other people came rushing over, anxious to help.  I mentioned to Les how attentive everyone seemed.  He explained that they all thought I was a prisoner being brought over for trial.  He added that they were all probably trying to guess what a middle-aged woman like me was doing in prison.  It turns out that my shirt is the same kind worn by inmates in the county jail.  Somehow, I didn't think that Lacey would want to hear that teachers dress like prisoners.

"Well," I tried, "I can tell you what teachers don't wear.  They don't wear bikinis to work!"

This got a good laugh from both girls.  Cassie offered to try to help Lacey find something nice to wear.  They found a skirt and blouse, and Cassie advised Lacey to wear her good shoes.

"But, Mommy wears flip flops!"  Lacey protested.  "Remember, Mommy is trying to set a record to see how many months in a row she can go without having to wear shoes?"

"That's because Mommy doesn't have to go out on the playground,"  I said.  "You need to wear shoes to be safe on the playground."

The girls ran off to finish getting ready for school and left me looking at myself in the mirror wondering exactly what a teacher is supposed to look like.

The artist and the teacher

Cultured Kids

I usually write about my family.  But, sometimes my professional and personal lives collide.  When that happens, I write about my kids at home as well as my kids at school.  Recently, both sets of kids have been teaching me about culture. 

 My high school students tend to be fairly worldly, in that they have already had many challenging experiences.  They typically are forced to focus on survival - paying the rent and securing their next meal.  Early in my career as a teacher, I realized that I could not solve their problems by taking out my checkbook.  (Actually, if my bank account were deep enough, this would probably be a fine solution.)  So, I have to believe that education has the power to enlighten and make better the lives that I touch every day. 

A few days ago, my students and I were discussing the concept of a "role model" and what constitutes a "good" role model.  They quickly ruled out substance abusers and womanizers (a new word in Spanish for me!).   I was thrilled when, as a group, they agreed that their beloved Brazilian soccer player was a good role model not because of his athletic ability, but because he had adopted a child.  Then, I praised my students for their ability to read and interpret our text and said that I was proud of how much English they had acquired. 

 One student looked at me and said, "Yeah, but we're not as smart as "Roland," are we?"

This was a reference to a European student whose father is in the U.S. as a diplomat.  This student was already enrolled in a university before he came to the U.S.

"Yes," another student offered.   "We're not nearly as smart."

Wow.  Clarifying moment for me.  It's not that I don't know my students well.  But, they seldom voice their perceptions of themselves. 

I began a monologue about the difference between education and intelligence, assuring my students that they are quite intelligent and need only to continue taking advantage of the opportunities that life offers.  The room was silent as they listened and thought about whether or not to believe me.  I left my classroom that day feeling their despair and determined to reinvent myself yet again to help them.

Going through the mail that evening, I glanced at a parenting magazine with a feature article about raising "cultured kids."  I looked out the window just in time to see Lacey run by swinging a four-foot stick.  Hmmmm.  Maybe I do need to work on the "cultured" piece a little.

I thought about the words "culture" and "cultured."  Not long ago I wrote about Lacey's early ventures into the meaning of "culture," and how she had defined culture as "music, clothing, language and food."  If the rules of language apply, then one who is "cultured," should be well versed in music, language, etc.  Yet, the motherly part of my brain interprets "cultured" as "refined," or one who recognizes the value of using a napkin instead of her sleeve!  So, what does "cultured" really mean?  I whipped out my beloved Thesaurus and read that "cultured" also means "refined." (Big sigh of relief because I'm not wrong.  Come on, I do plan to share this publicly.)  But really, this is why I love language.  Is a cultured child one who is well versed in the arts, or one who has refined manners?

Thanks to the Merriam-Webster online dictionary, "Culture" can be defined as "the act of developing the intellectual and moral faculties, especially by education."  Or, alternatively it can be defined as, "acquaintance with and taste in fine arts, humanities, and broad aspects of science as distinguished from vocational and technical skills."  Well, the first is the definition that I want to apply to my students.  I decided that a trip to the art museum is just what the teacher ordered.  As far as my own children, I decided to choose the second definition.  And a family field trip to the art museum would be just what the mom ordered. 

On Friday, I brought home some children's books about great artists.  I turned off the TV, declaring that there would be no more Nickelodeon this weekend!  We began reading about Matisse and Monet, and Cassie prattled on and on because, of course, she already knew more than what was conveyed in these simple books.  Lacey grabbed the book about Matisse and struggled to understand why his painting, "The Dance" is considered one of the most important modern works.

"Mommy,' she exclaimed.  "I got it.  An artist paints somebody's booty!"  She hopped off her chair and ran back to the TV.  Well, at least it's a start!

An Impressionist Kid

An Impressionable Kid

Flying

I love flying!  (It's for you to determine whether that statement is sincere or not.)  We left Colorado yesterday and flew home to Virginia. I had chosen a fairly early flight so that we would arrive home at a reasonable time.  After a quick breakfast, we said our goodbyes, snapping one final photo as Dave hoisted our bags into the car. We arrived at the airport with plenty of time to spare.

Our time to spare was spent with me doggedly  informing the ticket agent that the $25 I had spent to upgrade to "stretch" seats was supposed to cover our luggage and that, no, the small print did not say that I would have had to upgrade before I purchased the tickets, not after purchasing.  The argument that I only made one purchase that included the upgrade and, therefore, could not have upgraded after the fact eventually became the only thing standing between us and home.  So, I finally surrendered my credit card.

But still, we had a little extra time... time that was spent snaking through the long line approaching the security checkpoint with passengers changing their minds and turning around midstream, trying to make their way back against the tide of surging humans.  Our extra time was ticking by while I rolled my eyes at the spectacle of pompous guards in tight uniforms hollering at passengers to take off jackets and shoes, display all cosmetics and toothpaste, approach the booth only when instructed and, above all else, to keep moving!  Time was ticking by while I tried to pretend I was alone and not notice Cassie diving toward the moving belt while simultaneously unzipping her backpack and coming up with a tube of toothpaste held proudly above her head  as Lacey yelled, "Careful, Cassie!  It's open!"   Too late.  Too late. A guard was beckoning us over to the security line reserved for families traveling with young children and I was urging the girls forward as they strained to see what their dolls looked like on the X-ray machine. And eventually, the girls were shouldering backpacks as I pointed them toward the moving walkway that turned out to be the only stationary walkway in the airport, while Lacey was shouting to nearby travelers that we were looking for gate "hundred eighty-three."

Hooray, it was boarding time and the girls were rejoicing because we weren't only in Zone 1, but Row 1.  And then, at the exact moment that we were stepping onto the ramp to board the plane and claim our cherished seats, the sole passenger in front of us chose to set her toddler down and let him practice walking.

We finally reached our seats and suddenly, from the front row vantage point, I was overhearing far too much.  The crew destined to staff our plane had been waylaid by mechanical problems in some unknown city.   The sole stewardess who had punched in on time was obligated to repeatedly inform the passengers that a pilot, copilot and crew would be arriving momentarily.  I was watching as this stewardess used her feet to open the cabinets housing the food and passed out warm cookies with the napkins that she had dropped on the floor.  Even as the pilot arrived we were informed that we would again be momentarily delayed while we waited for passengers whose planes were just a tad behind schedule.  (Note to self:  check to see how Webster's defines "momentarily.").   Politely raising my hand I was informed that no, our connecting flight at the next airport would not be waiting for us, regardless of our mounting delay.  And eventually, the panting, sweating passengers arrived and we were airborne.

Breathing recycled air and watching TV reruns, we made our way to Milwaukee.   We found our connecting flight, only steps away. Observing the throng of waiting passengers, we learned that our flight had been. . . Delayed!!

Finally, we were wheels up and only a couple hours away from home and  i was peacefully nodding off only to be awakened by Lacey yelling, "Mommy, Mommy!!  Quick, wake up!!  Mommy, what's your favorite color?"