When You Start Reading Again

When I was young I read a lot. I actually don't remember being that hot on reading until I was in 3rd grade or so and I discovered Spaceship Under the Apple Tree, which was the first sort of science fiction I read and which became the first series I read. There were only three books, but I loved them. From there I began to devour books. I read quickly and I had a good memory for what I read. It only got worse as I got older because reading was a way to cope with a lot of things for me. But also, I loved being swept up in another world.

When I started writing for money, I stopped reading. I had very young children and not a lot of sleep and I was working from home. We lived in new places with poor libraries and then...I just forgot that reading was a part of me. Grad school compounded this. Reading became entirely product oriented. I read to write or discuss or both. The twins were born right after the third book came out and I never made it past the big Quidditch match at the start of the book. I read the vampire books because I was able to get hold of them between the end of my first semester of classes and the start of the second and I read all four of them in one week. And then nothing even remotely like it for years.

When I came out to Provo to find us a place to live, which was pretty darn stressful, I found the public library. It's nice. It's quiet and recently updated and there are computers the public can use for up to two hours. If you don't live here you can show ID and get a code to use the computers for a couple hours that day. I found it very useful. After we moved here, it took us a bit to get back there, but eventually we did. The boys and I got library cards and we've been there more than once a week since.

And I have read about 5 books a week since.

These are no classics. They're small mystery novels and romance novels with little more than kissing. Yesterday I picked up a humorous biography from one of the Big Bang Theory actors. But I had read somewhere on the Internet in the last year that even just reading silly fiction like this--not the good stuff from "Best of...", but your average paperback--is good for you and good for your writing.

I have noticed that one of the effects of reading more is that I have begun to feel less nervous about my attention span. My attention span is, apparently, just fine if you put a little kissing into the story. Of course, my research doesn't really lend itself to that, but it has made me wonder--every bit of research always has a story to tell. The object of the game is to bring out the "so what" of whatever it is that you were studying. If you don't have an answer to that, you don't really have anything new to say on the subject and you're better off writing about something else. So if a romance novel is better with a smidge of detail about those two innocent kisses (I gave up bodice rippers a long while back, but I won't judge you if you never did--so long as you don't judge me for reading romance novels in general) then what is "the kiss" in article about professional development? What makes you want to wonder what else that author has written? Compelling characters, a problem that really does need to be solved, and the suggestion of a solution or a future. All those things are part of qualitative research, but we aren't always very good at telling the story.

Another side effect of reading more fluff is that I have come to realize how GOOD it feels to daydream, to imagine, to roll your eyes at the ridiculousness of the plot, to thoroughly enjoy a very well-written parody of the genre...there is a role for this kind of escape.

Don't worry--it's not an exclusive diet.

That said, in a world in which we read more and more soundbites, mini-articles, social media--all on tiny screens of our smart phones, etc. (Which, I should add, I don't have--I can't read books on my phone anymore. I do have one of those oversized five lb. iPads. They're good for playing FarmVille 2. and holding an electronic copy of the scriptures.) It's very nice to read a story from start to finish. It's very nice to consider reading strictly for the purpose of entertainment. We live in a world in which there are ever increasing ways to be labeled as deficient and ever increasing types of "reading difficulties" or disorders or whatever you want to call them.

I am remembering the importance of giving both children and adults the freedom to read and enjoy books that aren't necessarily very well written or edited just because. Because it's nice to enter a world where you only know what you need to know--you aren't bombarded with information all the time. It's nice to put yourselves in the shoes of another and to know it's going to turn out well. It's nice to read whatever you want to read and know that nobody else will even notice you're reading that. When I do turn back to an article, I notice I read it better. I skim less, notice the big picture more, do a better job of remembering who contributed to the writing, and do a better job of thinking across texts. I've always been good at the last bit--but it seems letting my brain read whatever it wants helps me do what I've been doing well even better.

Nothing deep here. Just a few thoughts late at night when reading scriptures after a Christmas-themed romance novel by Heather Graham.

Somewhere Between Amazing and Calmly Mundane

Saw this on Facebook today:

I'm somewhere between Amazing and Relax and Exhale right now, depending on the moment. But for you mothers of young children and/or young families, I have to post this with some caveats.

I get enough sleep. Only the dog wakes me up to pee. She has trouble getting comfortable in her old age, so rarely sleeps with us on the bed anymore.

My children will cook dinner for the family once or twice a week. Ben usually offers.

They wash their own laundry. I don't clean the game room or their room. I only stock their bathroom. If it looks gross, I clean the bathmat, but I have them do the rest.

My children are old enough to tell me what they want and need. Their personalities are such that they will offer counter-arguments to my NOs with respect. I listen to those counter arguments and will change my response when they are reasonable. We can do that because of their age, who we are, the choices they make about how to communicate with us, and our current levels of calm v. stress.

I can pay all my bills. We can set money aside for savings. Unless I do something seriously immoral or at all illegal, my job is relatively secure for the next three years. Our internet is free (Google Fiber, and we're happy with the free speed) and our "basic" cable is 140 channels included in our rent.

We don't have smart phones. It cut our phone bill in half, it cut the addiction, and it cut down on overworking. I tell my students that I can't respond to their emails immediately so they know to expect that.

We don't have to work on the Sabbath. Not even rehearsals, because of where we live. People don't schedule lessons or activities on Monday nights to avoid interrupting Family Home Evening--which is just what it sounds like.

I have a job where my whole self is welcomed and appreciated. My classes start with a prayer. My students relate the experiences of their ELL students to their 18 months to 2 years learning a second language on their mission. We talk about how awesome General Conference was (AND the games, c'mon, be reasonable). GC is our THON and it happens twice a school year, but the students don't miss classes for the next two days. They are rested and refreshed.

Work is work! There are politics and long-standing personal clashes and things you just wish could be different. But it is *my* work, the work I had the *privilege* of choosing and I had the LUCK of landing at a school where I FIT. I love my scholarly community across Universities.

For me, the older I get, the easier it is for me to be cool with me. I have less of a need to be what someone else thinks I should be. I have a better understanding that sometimes the lens through which we regard others refracts.

Warning: The following reflections are influenced by my area of research:

In Mid-May I read a book about stereo-type threat. Not the work on the effect of stereo-type threat's affect on assessment practices in minority communities--although that started it all and is definitely part of the literature--but the notion that when we associate ourselves with a stigmatized community (e.g., a particular disability label)--we may behave in ways that attempt to avoid reinforcing a stereotype about that type of stigmatized person and in the process inadvertently reinforce it. We internalize the stigma and the shame and put an extraordinary amount of effort into hiding the disability. This gave me tremendous insight into one of the sources of what was nearly crippling anxiety in the last few years of my PhD program.

[Thank you Mary Lambert for "Secrets" at that point in time. "They tell us from the time we're young to hide the things that we don't like about ourselves--inside ourselves. I know I'm not the only one, who spent so long attempting to be someone else, well I'm over it." Not that I think everyone should know everything about me. I think that's part of feeling constantly apologetic for existing--you feel you have to explain yourself to everyone. I've moved beyond that.]

It happens that I love my Faith and the opportunity to NOT have to downplay its influence in my life and the degree to which it brings me JOY has had an incredible affect on my ability to love my life.

I had no idea that's what was waiting for me here.

I know there will be tough times ahead because that's how we grow. It's part of the design, as the quote above suggests, and it is a foundational belief for Latter-Day Saints. I suspect further heartbreak awaits me because I love a lot of people and none of them will live forever. But there will always be updrafts if we don't give up--and if we remember that we are never alone. I can promise you that.

You're Lucky

She said, “Yooou’re lucky,” in an accent thicker than the lines on her face.

In late June I left my doctor’s office to walk one long block down to Taco Bell where Chris was going to pick me up. The most direct path took me through the parking lot, down a flight of stairs, to a concrete sidewalk which led to the main sidewalk along the road. Right where this side path intersected with the sidewalk there was also a cross walk that ran across the road to the entrance of a multi-tiered retirement community. A woman was making her way slowly across the road with her walker. She was close to the sidewalk, as was I, when we made eye contact.

She said, “Yooou’re lucky.” She was from Brooklyn, New York. She didn’t have to tell me that—although later she would.

“Pardon?” I replied.

“You’re lucky!” she fired back. “You can walk!”

She had me there. “Yes, I am. I’m lucky. I can walk.”

Now, I’m quite frequently socially awkward. I have my moments of feigning normality, but I also have some humdinger moments of complete social ineptitude. This was a weird start!! It would have been in keeping with my character for me to kind of wave and say, “Well, have a good day!” and hurry on to Taco Bell.

But sometimes you know. I knew this was weird in a “stop and pay attention because this is a MOMENT” kind of thing.

I stopped and waited while she got to the sidewalk. “I’m Alaska,” I said. “You’re headed to Weis?” Yes, she was, and she had some things to say. Most of them involved the F word, and they were all in an Italian-from-Brooklyn accent. I’m guessing she was in her mid-80s, but she was smart as a whip and feistier than a Greek Goddess who’s been done wrong. We’ll call her Eva. Eva means life.   

“My children say Ya have to walk, Ma. You can’t just sit still. The don’t F’n know what they’re talking about! They don’t have to F’n do it!”

“It’s their job to harass you so you don’t freeze up,” I said.

“F that.” She replied matter-of-factly.

I won’t lie. I was in love.

She told me about her children. They were F’n brilliant. One was a psychiatrist. The other a professor in the hard sciences. She said her daughter came home at some step along her educational path and said “We need to talk, Ma.” Eva told her “F that. We all have our problems.” I told her I have my own Psychiatrist and it’s worked out pretty well. “Good.” She said like it had been her idea that I should go. “If you need it, you should go.” She paused. “Don’t stop. Bad things can happen if you stop.” I reassured her that I knew that rule well.

She had questions for me. “What do you do?” I told her I had just defended my dissertation and we were moving so I could take a position at BYU. “You’re a Mormon?” “Yep.” She cocked her head at me. “Good. People need something to believe in. Just don’t go being a F’n jerk about it.” I reassured her that was not my M.O.

Eva was generous, funny, smart, and had the vocabulary of an inebriated sailor.  

We talked about my boys, too. She decided she liked them. We covered such a short stretch of ground through the parking lot, pausing a bit at a corner of the sidewalk where she would leave the walk and head across the parking lot. But as far as sharing with each other—we covered a lot of ground. I prepared to go.

“I should go now.”

“You think I F’n care?”

I startled, then laughed out loud, “No, I guess not!” It seemed the funniest thing because of course these kinds of pleasantries are meant to mask the fact that strangers are trained to not care in order to make parting a smooth thing. It is hard to say goodbye to a new person full of possibility.

Her entire demeanor changed. “Come here,” and I did. I would have done anything for Eva in that moment. “I love you,” she said, and gave me a big hug. Very strong for someone so small. “I love you, too, Eva.” I said, smiling. Totally meant it. She took off at top Terapin speed across the parking lot. I turned and walked toward F’n Taco Bell.

God apparently will send Angels who use the F word to substitute for any manner of adjectives. The message that day was delivered first and last. “You’re lucky.” And “You think I care? Come here. I love you.”

I didn’t see her again before the move, so the chances of seeing her again are slim, but she’s unforgettable.

I’m lucky.

On Loss and Grief and Being a "Good" Daughter-in-law

We are coming up on the second anniversary of the loss of my mother-in-law. We had what I think is probably a typical relationship among mothers-in-law and daughters-in-law, which is definitely not the stereotypical relationship. That is, we usually got along, we usually liked each other, and we were almost always willing to bend the rules in the other's favor in order to make sure that Max, Ben, and Milo got what they wanted and needed in the way of a grandmother and mother. In this relationship, Chris was a guy we both loved, but their relationship was complicated, and we never talked about it. I needed Gaye for my own reasons and she needed me for her own reasons--so there was a direct line between us--it did not pass through Chris.

A day or two ago I was remembering the early years with Gaye. She was working for the CHP in San Francisco or Oakland, I'm not sure which. She drove a Honda sedan with the license plate GAZE. She was slender, smoked constantly, and was still trying to figure out how to store presents she bought for Max because I wouldn't give them to him if they smelled like a cigarette butt. We didn't fight openly about this. We diplomatically made our moves until the problem was solved. Although she didn't stop smoking until after the twins were born, maybe 7 years later, she did figure out how to store the items so they wouldn't be ruined in her apartment, and on my part, I didn't tell her what to get or how much to get Max (unless she asked). When we were rear-ended in a horrible hit-and-run, she bought us a replacement car. I liked that our lives were intertwined. I liked that some boundaries were firm and some permeable. I liked when she moved to be near us so she could help with the babysitting and we could help her as her health declined. I liked growing closer to her then.

To me, from the beginning, she was funny, sweet, smart, naïve, and competitive. I never won a game of scrabble against her. Not even close. But she liked my style of play (screw the points, I'm going for words that taste wonderful in your mouth. Look! I have all the letters for moribund!) and we laughed a LOT playing any board game with her, but especially Scrabble.

Back when she worked (and still smoked) she wore a girdle long after everyone else had stopped, probably because she had such a slender physique anyway. She would hold in her farts all day and then come to our house for dinner and a game and release the gas, which would reverberate as they escaped from the girdle. This NEVER stopped being funny to her (or Chris, or Max) and I was very embarrassed by it in those early years. Likewise, she loved potty humor, and I was embarrassed by it around her. I remember, very clearly, considering whether to ask her to not tell Max the off-color jokes when he got old enough (after all, he was maybe 18 months, but already talking a LOT).

When you are a new, young mom, you take these things very seriously. Every interaction with your child seems heavy with formative function. You stop swearing. You change seats if the kids in front of you won't stop swearing. You want the babysitters who look like they came out of the Partridge Family, not the ones with too much eyeliner and a propensity for black clothing. You hesitate when a certain friend offers to babysit because her husband is a little course. It's worse than thinking you know it all. You think you figured it out yourself.  You think you're smarter and more educated than the previous generation. You think you care more about your kid than they did about theirs. It's a temporary affliction. It lasts until the first time something serious comes along that you can't figure out on your own and your aunts or the older women at church help you get through. Then you wise up. Then you start listening.

So I considered whether to talk to her or not about this issue of the loud farts and the off-color jokes because I thought that was something *I* got decide. But I was at least smart enough to consider what would happen if I *didn't.* What was the worst thing that could happen if I asked her to stop? She could get her feeling irreparably hurt. She could stop coming to visit so often. She could withdraw, feeling unwanted, unapproved. What was the worst thing that could happen if I never said a thing? Max could fart in a few situations where he shouldn't because he didn't know that wasn't socially acceptable (I didn't know that little boys take forever to learn to hold it in until they can get to some place appropriate. Like maybe, fourth grade.) He could tell some off-color jokes to a friend and that friend (and their parents) could think he heard them from me.

Gaye loved Max. Like a crazy love. He didn't come too soon, or at the wrong time, or feel like any kind of an inconvenience to her. He was the best idea Chris and I ever had (until we had identical twins, which was also crazy, so she loved them, too, but not more than Max) as far as Gaye was concerned. She loved that he was a boy. She liked the name once she got used to it. He laughed and she laughed louder. I cannot express how much I needed someone to be as madly in love with him as I was, and she was. She was every part and parcel, every bit of heart and soul, as in love with Max as I was. She approved of my parenting (mostly, she did like to complain) and I decided then to approve of her grandmothering (mostly--there was still the issue of smoking). She was a diamond in the rough and in the end, just what I needed. I'm so glad now that I *decided* to accept her as she was then, because by and large she accepted me as I was--through depression, through spring instability, through career changes, through all those pregnancy losses, through everything. I would feel so ashamed now if I had made any other decision.

Of course I still miss her.

A while back, before she died, I read an interesting book excerpt in which a mostly irreligious doctor working in hospice starts noticing that in the two weeks before they died, many of his patients reported seeing a relative of theirs who came to bring them home. They knew then that they would die, and they were eager to go be with that person again. Sometimes he was with them when they saw the person--often across the room, usually smiling, most commonly a parent--most commonly the mother. He took an interest in this phenomenon that he initially wrote off as a hallucination and 20 years into recording the experiences he had, or rather his experiences with patients who had these pre-death visits, he wrote a book summarizing his thoughts about it. He had come to believe in a spiritual life because of the experiences, and to consider his own relationships because of them.

I remembered this when Gaye began calling after her father in the hospital, "No, Daddy, don't go, take me with you!" (that was a Friday, she would die the following Wednesday morning at 7:00 am) and I was so struck by the experience that I called her sister as soon after that as possible. It was, to me, formal notice. Her father had died when she was still quite young, and it was that young self calling out to him.

In my head, I've decided that when it is time for me to go, if I go in a slow way where there is time for this sort of thing, Gaye and Judy (who is still very much alive. Hopefully this doesn't creep her out.) will show up together. "Is that what you're wearing?" Gaye will ask. "You'd better get dressed," Judy will say, "How about that purple dress?" Gaye will suggest. "You can wear my gold earrings if you want," Judy will add. And I will know it is time to start saying my Goodbyes and probably look forward eagerly for the moment when they both come back to get me for good. That would be a good enough ending for me.

Seasonal Affective Disorder

Seasonal Affective Disorder is that thing where you feel sad in the winter and not-sad in the summer. A lot of mentally-healthy people experience this pattern, but for some people it's like you have your regular life---and then you freelance as a director of mental illness on the side. As you go about your life doing all the things everyone else does-loving, making decisions, doing chores, teaching, talking, growing, raising children and/or puppies/kittens/plants, etc., you also constantly monitor the mental health index.

During the dark of winter it's all about sticking to a schedule, sticking to promises made, sticking the landings (if you'll forgive me). If you have to take meds to do that, you do. If you have to sit in front of a light box for a half hour, you do. If you have to exercise every morning to be able to not cry every evening, you do. You hang on to the knowledge that winter always ends.

And then, one day, it is March. About mid-March, specifically, when a line is passed, and the days stay light long enough (because it is ALL about the light) and you find that everything you worked so hard at over the winter is … easier. You surprise yourself one day by laughing your way through a meeting. You smile at strangers. You relax a little. For some people with S.A.D., that's pretty much it. They're off duty until mid-to-late September. For others, this is the first of two breaks. Because for all of May and into early June you're managing a different kind of mental health problem.

Hypomania is a condition that is kind of like the opposite of depression. You have more energy than normal, feel like you can do more than you normally can, take risks you wouldn't if you weren't in that state. When I was younger the impulsiveness was a real problem, but when I came to understand it, I also found that it was something I could control. I could guard against making foolish decisions by being in the habit of taking MORE time to make decisions. These days I'm more likely to sign up for one committee too many in the PTA than I am to do something really harmful. I don't drink or engage in other risky behaviors that would make it hard for me to stay on top of those "higher than normal" feelings. For me the hardest thing during this period is sticking to a budget. I don't buy big ticket items, but I might eat out more and I have a hard time saying no to things the kids want.

By mid-June the hypo state has often stabilized, and July, August, and the first part of September are the real vacation time from managing S.A.D.

S.A.D. is technically under the bipolar II umbrella, but it's most commonly "diagnosed" as "persistent clinical depression with a season affective component" because bipolar II is not popular with health insurance companies. S.A.D. can vary from winter to winter. It's worse in areas with less light and better in areas with more light. I take meds year round because I get the best stability throughout the year that way. I supplement with light therapy when it seems like a particular year is harder.

So happy March. For me, the month of second winds. I've had an unusually mild winter. This usually leads to a relatively balanced and normal spring. I'm feeling very grateful and so I thought I'd write a little note explaining S.A.D. to those of you who might be feeling worn-out from this winter and hoping for spring to come soon. In terms of light, it'll be here in about a week to ten days. (Only G*d knows when the snow will melt. In my backyard we have a ways to go.)

Toot Says the Flute, Maaa Says the Oboe, the Bassoon Says Bwaaahhh

My friend, Patrese, had offered to arrange a hymn for Ben, Milo, and I to play together. There was a talent show coming up at church and she knew my original reason for picking up the bassoon again after lo these many years was to play a little with Ben and Milo. She asked me what notes I knew on the bassoon and I told her the key of F. Pretty much just the 8 notes in the middle of the bass staff and a little below it. She chose Praise to the Lord, the Almighty

Wow, that thumbnail is atrocious. Click anyway. It's totally fun to watch the ASL at the same time you hear the joyous hymn.

She gave me the music she had arranged and sent me home to try to play it. I knew all but two notes, so I took it to my lesson and my teacher taught me the two missing notes. I gave Patrese the thumbs up and she made an oboe and a flute part with both a harmony and a melody. She told us to play it through three times with the boys trading off harmony and melody. So we did. We practiced that. We were feeling pretty decent about things going into this morning. THEN I went to my bassoon lesson.

And it was a disaster. I could hardly play a note. I squawked, I squealed, I couldn't play notes that hadn't been a problem in a long while. To make matters worse, I learned I had been using the wrong fingering for the highest note in the song. By the end of the lesson I still couldn't play that measure correctly. I was so distraught on the way home that I stopped at the church and went in and (literally) cried on Chris's shoulder. He said encouraging things.

I went home and spent another thirty minutes on it before concluding that the correct way, which sounded just a little better, more clear, than the cheater fingering I'd been using, was simply not going to work in time for the talent show. I played it through again using the cheater fingering. I played the cheater note and the good note next to each other. I made a decision.

The boys and I headed over to the church. We practiced our piece on the stage and I started to feel a little less nervous. Still really nervous, but less like making a run for the border. Patrese told me to remember it was not really about the music. It was really about a family making music together. That was a good reminder for me. It helped a lot. Max showed up with his sweetheart, Alexis, and that made things a little better. Then Alexis's parents showed up and that made things better. The show got underway, and soon it was our turn.

And we didn't suck. There were some very small mistakes, but overall, it was a complete success in the "family making music together" department. And not one person said, "Hey, that one high note. Not quite right. Are you sure you got the fingering right?"And I think somewhere in there is a lesson. I mean, I still DO need to learn the proper way to play that note. And also, I need to practice more, and also, when the lesson is going poorly I need to speak up and say, "this is not going well. Let's go look at that other page and come back to this in a few minutes," because I think that would have helped. Nevertheless when it became apparent that doing it perfectly wasn't going to happen, I went for doing it "good enough for this crowd" so that the twins and I could play a hymn together, instead of freaking out and refusing to perform at all. What was important in the end was that we sounded reasonably good together (because Patrese had arranged the music so we could, and because we practiced together a bunch) and that we each showed up for each other. We knew if we stayed together, we'd be okay. We knew if someone got a little ahead or behind the beat, the others would adjust when we got to the next half note. So when I missed the fingering on one note, you couldn't really tell because the twins were playing loudly enough to drown it out anyway. When Ben got lost for a moment and missed a measure, you couldn't really tell, because he joined us at the start of the next one. It was just the three of us making some music together and so, yay.

I recommend it. The next time it looks like your kid is just not feeling the love during practice time, grab a pot and a wooden spoon and offer to be the percussion while s/he practices. 

I really appreciate quieter days after days like today

This day was like freaky bipolar. Yay! Max's hearing is just fine! Boo-the super sweet physical therapist tried to kill me (why do I insist on believing her when she says, "a little discomfort.") and then I lost my car. And then I found it. And then the parking garage guy said, "Merry Christmas, I'll cover your missing 93 cents" but he said it like, "get out of my face, you disgust me, you irresponsible nimrod." And I would have given ANYTHING to have found a dollar somewhere in the car then, but I only had Lion cash and a credit card, so I had to drive away feeling like the ice scum in my wheel wells. Then I drove to my research site and there were exactly the right number of people who have agreed to participate in my research, which was half the number that we had planned, but which in the end, felt perfect. I drove home and then straight to the middle school to pick up the twins to go to swimming, which we did, right after we got someone to help me start the car with jumper cables. I got Chris a Yay! cake and then picked up the twins again and got them home for a bite to eat before the concert back at the middle school. The music was awesome. We have the most amazing music programs in State College and our kids completely benefit from it. But also? The pain from the PT earlier in the day. By the time I got home I was exhausted. Too exhausted to get up from my chair when Chris started Monsters University at 9:30 pm. I'm going to have to just float from one of the pool to the other in the morning. I hope Jill is driving. I hope tomorrow is not so exciting. 

This is going to be an Amazing Week

This week is so. many. things. It is a a birthday, a dissertation project milestone, the graduation of my my students and their students from the fall world languages program for elementary students, the twins first priesthood interviews, their 12th birthday, a visit from Mom and her friend to help celebrate those things, Max's fall play, being in charge of the flower committee for that play, being at all the performances to wrap and sell flowers, and etc. There really is more for the etc.

I was feeling more than a little overwhelmed about it all, especially since I would prefer to clear the schedule and just prepare for my committee meeting on Friday, but since I am a mother of three teens and wife to a double-majoring temporary undergrad, that's not happening. Instead I'll make a list of readings I want to revisit before then and have them in my backpack and look for times when I can read them as I have downtime between the other ts.

Then one of my visiting teachers snuck into my house and helped me with my dishes and left me a vase of flowers, which was so uncalled for and so welcome. The flowers are beautiful, really beautiful, and they're on my dining room table bringing me more joy.

And today I talked out my worries with two friends and I decided my sound track for this week is going to be Hymn #223 Have I Done Any Good in the World Today and my motto will be endure to the end, with the understanding that we LDS believe you're not doing it right if you sad sack and despair your way through things. No, enduring to the end means keeping the light of Christ in your heart, acting as he would have us act, finding moment after moment to be grateful, redistributing our blessings to meet the needs of others (okay, I wish this applied to the dentist appointment. I'd like to redistribute my fillings to others who might need them more, and I totally would it not for a life long fear of root canals.)

So we'll take things one day at a time, and at points, one hour at a time. Tomorrow is a day full of meetings and appointments. The dog needs a bath so badly. We've all stopped loving her fully because of her stink. Tomorrow she will be washed in the waters of Petco and arise again a pretty and sweet smelling dog. We're not shallow. This is some serious stink she got into at some point.

I will order the flowers. I'll make a list of readings I want to revisit before then and have them in my backpack and look for times when I can read them as I have downtime between the other things.

I will attend a meeting to plan a class I'm teaching next semester. I had a meeting with the professor running this meeting last week and we talked about al lot of the stuff at this meeting ahead of time and I had a chance to think aloud through whatever there was to separate wisdom from tradition. I'm better prepared to support the changes fully now. We also talked about where I am in the program and she said, "I actually found finishing the dissertation went quickly once the data was collected."

I'm thinking of putting that on a t-shirt and wearing it for my dissertation writing sessions.

I will submit a second job application. I've decided to graduate in August and work on finding us a good home program, a good place for the twins to attend high school, a good place for  Chris to finish his certification program and start teaching. This feels right. Unlike tomorrow's dentist appointment.

I will get three fillings. three.

Then I will pick up Milo from musical rehearsals and take him to flute. Then go back and pick up Ben from musical rehearsals and take them both to swimming. Then we will go home and do homework and eat something and collapse in to bed. Thank heavens Max can drive himself places.

But then there is Tuesday and the graduation and I have the opportunity to look back over another fall field experience and reflect on what this group taught me and what I need to fine tune if I do again next fall. That will be the next post, I think: What I Learn as a Teacher Educator, because I always do and I always find surprises. I love people who think they want to be teachers because it's not a decision lightly made anymore. It requires a certain amount of steel and my job is to help students find it and start using it to be the good they want in the world--since that's still the primary reason I hear students say they want to teach.

School Pictures. Why do they hurt so bad?

Milo (Age 11)

Ben (Age 11)

 

Someday when they are rich and famous disability studies professors they'll look back on these photos and have a good laugh at how accurately school pictures capture our nerdiness, which is too great to be only inner nerdiness. No sirree. We leave nerdiness everywhere we go, like a leaky bag of Fun Dip.

If I ruled the world...

There would be such a thing as a knitting sabbatical.

Admin: Alaska, this is your third knitting sabbatical you've submitted this year.
Alaska: I can't control these things, Ma'am. As Shakespeare's Benedick says with such anticipation, "The world must be peopled!" and in my case, having done my fair share of people-ing, "The itty-bitties must have handknit sweaters!"
Admin: But it's only March. When will you teach your classes?
Alaska: Just as soon as I run out of this baby bamboo/merino superwash blend.

Yeah. Not going to happen. Okay, what if I started each semester teaching my students to knit so by the end of the semester they had both a firm grasp on the difference between segregated and unsegregated ESL programs AND a knit and purl stitch? We could donate each semester's baby sweaters to the nearest refugee relocation NGO.

But today is Wednesday and Wednesdays are my best get things done day. Jill and I swam. There is laundry in the washer. The dog is spoiled and fed. The whole house (except the kitchen and bathrooms) is the cleanest it's been in ages (which pretty much took the whole summer to get to this point, with the carpet cleaner guy putting the finishing touches on yesterday) and my goal is to keep it this way until Thanksgiving. After that, who knows. But in the meantime, I need to tackle the bathrooms and kitchen this week. But not today.

Until it's time to go get Ben for oboe I'm working on final evals for the World Languages student teachers, some paper work for my dissertation project, and finishing touches on an article I hope to submit to a journal in two weeks.

It's really, really nice being in a clean house. I wish I were the sort of mother for whom keeping it that way came easily. I mean, assuming that meant I could keep the other good things about me like finding most teenagers charming and brave and thinking that teaching is an art, not a science, so it must always be assessed qualitatively, not quantitatively and being really, really sure that Institute class at church is the best. thing. ever.

I've been thinking lately how school is like my sons' swim team. But that will be fodder for another post.

Up the Down Staircase, rinse, repeat.

So you know, you come back down to the basement with two pieces of Halloween candy that Ben has given you and sit back down at the computer. You put on your headphones and hit play and that classical piece that you had playing ten minutes ago with the discord and the church bells starts up again and that's when you remember that you originally went upstairs for your Bahktin notes. Shoot.

We Didn't Start the Fire

I hope I can assume that anyone who might visit this blog is familiar with Billy Joel's We Didn't Start the Fire.

If you google around, you can find some fun videos that match visuals to each line of the song. I've used them to demonstrate the difference between listening to the song alone and listening to it with visual aides for my teacher ed students who might otherwise not understand the huge difference multiple modes of instruction make to their emerging bilingual students (aka English language learners).

For me this fall has been unusually light. I've had some important stuff to work on for school, but I have fewer students to supervise this fall and fewer sections to teach and I'm not taking any classes, so I even had some goof-off time.

That's over. It's so over that in looking at my schedule for the next two weeks it reads an awful lot like the frenetic pace of WDSTF.

Now part of it is just bad luck. I have a lot to get done in the next two weeks to prepare for my proposal defense and that's just all there is to it. The twins' musical rehearsals start. Thankfully, they're only in the ensemble cast, but Monday is the first rehearsal and they can't miss it. So is Milo's flute lesson. I haven't figured out how that one will work out yet.

I have a lot of prep work to get done before Christmas so I can start my dissertation project in January, and I learned on Thursday that it has  to be done as soon as possible since the school board in the district I want to work with doesn't meet in December (this is really common among central PA schools, anyway. They meet twice in November and skip December.)

The World Languages field experience has a week and a half left to it, so I'm in the middle of final formal evaluations, final lesson plan feedback, getting signatures on all the graduation certificates from TPTB, and making sure we have enough space for all the parents to gather for the graduation day.

Ben and Milo turn 12 two weeks from tomorrow. This is a big deal in our church. It's not a lot for me to plan (they're hoping to have two friends over for a sleepover) but there is definitely some planning involved and it's feeling like more than it is with the other stuff crowding in.

And Max is about to go into tech week(s)...heck, because the performances of The Birds at the high school is the same weekend as the twins' birthdays and of course, I'm the flower committee. Thank. heavens. that is a light responsibility.

Thanksgiving is going to be a cake walk in comparison. In fact, I hearby swear I'm not even going to think about it until Nov. 18. Except to buy groceries at Giant so I can get the free turkey. Also it  helps in writing this out that I can see that for half the list the issue is really just for the next two weeks.

And a bunch of writing to do, but that's like saying "also some laundry and dishes."

I'm going to need a new play list. With Eye of the Tiger or something.

It's just two weeks. I can do anything for two weeks (okay, not tennis, but you get me).

Blog Sweet Blog

I'll be writing again over here instead of on Facebook for awhile. I have a lot to get done this year and Facebook, for all its good qualities (frequent pictures of good friends) is such a time suck for me.

Nevertheless, I do love to stay in touch with family and friends, and since I am so consistently pathetic about calling anyone (at least until Dad calls my cell phone and says, "Thought you might be dead. We're leaving next week for a four week tour of Portugal. You might want to call this weekend and argue otherwise.") blogging is my best bet again.

I might have forgotten how to imbed photos in my posts though.

Nope.

So a quick catch up seems in order.

Alaska: Working on her dissertation. And always the dishes. On the look out in case someone might have thrown away a bassoon they aren't using anymore. Still drives too fast. Currently blonde. At least my eye color is legit. Swimming three days a week at the Y with Jill in the hopes that someday I might fit back in my cute clothes.

Chris: Worked previous five years for a software company. When they laid off most of their staff (75%) at the start of the sequester last Spring, he was at a cross roads. He decided to go back to school with the hopes of eventually teaching/directing theatre/English.

Max: Senior in high school. Applying to four colleges and his LDS mission. He'll do the LDS mission first and then college, but applying for college on your mission is tricky and frowned on, so they apply now, then defer enrollment. Happy kid. Dating Alexis. Alexis the Awesome.

Ben: 6th grade. High baritone already and he's not quite 12. Plays oboe and cello. Is hoping for a speaking role in the school musical but will do anything, really. Agreeable, helpful fellow who has lots of ideas about how to get things done and tries not to get in trouble telling others what they should do. In another few years this will work out well for him.

Milo: 6th grade. Voice is slipping down. Not as obvious as Ben. Plays flute. Reads constantly. Is hoping we might let him homeschool himself someday. Also interested in the play, but I could see him being really, really happy on set design. We're taking Brienne Brown's water color class together in two weeks.

Emily: Will be 10 years old in March. Still a friendly, loving senior poodle, but a little more neurotic and a little more likely to pee on the carpet. Hate that last part. Still the best. dog. ever.

Still in State College, PA. Still in love with Pennsylvania.
 

Writing

There are, as near as I can figure, four primary activities of an academic. They read a lot. They read and read and read and never quite get caught up with the reading. There is far more information than we can all process. Which is why we spend a lot of time talking to others about it. We talk out our ideas, we talk over your ideas, we talk about teaching and students. We complain about not having time to write. Which is the third activity. We write a lot. We write research reports and lit reviews and articles for practitioner (teacher-oriented) magazines. We write syllabi and comments on students papers. We write power points. We write an ungodly amount of emails. Finally, we teach. We teach anywhere from two to four courses a semester, depending on the kind of University you go to work at. Bigger research loads = lesser teaching load.

So recently I've been following the advice of Paul Silvia who says, in so many words, stop complaining about writing, make the time, write, then forget about it.

This approach has been remarkably productive for me. I've finished one project that has been hanging over my head since August. I've mostly finished my Candidacy paper. I'm making good progress on the first article I want to submit to a peer-reviewed journal.




Simple but inspirational. Well worth the $8.

This may cut into my knitting time

So last semester I did some research along side of my student-teacher supervising, and as I would collect data, I would stash it in a few places, like a dog burying a bone it knows it will want later. I had emails and written feedback of written lessons and written feedback of observations and a lot of videos of student-teachers teaching. I had their written reflections and videos that they recorded to exemplify one aspect or another of teaching. I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, "Alaska, why weren't you coding it as you went along?" and my answer is that the design of the project required that I didn't really know which students were participating, so I couldn't code anything until I knew.

But now I now, so I ordered an external hard drive of epic proportions and started to move all of the data on to it in neat, organized folders, thinking this might take 8 or 9 hours, but . . . I was so wrong.

It turns out that a) at least one of the folder bones is just plain gone. Thankfully every attachment sent by email is kept my our campus web mail, and therefore, I have everything back in one form or another, but retrieving them meant going back through over 300 emails to find them all. b) There were issues with mac v. pc and I lost precious time translating files into forms everything on my pc could read. I needed everything on the pc so I could use NVivo 9 to organize it all, but holy cow . . . what a chore.

So, I feel hopelessly behind now in my coding and completely overwhelmed by the amount of data, but I am gritting my teeth and plowing forward. The one good thing--it's forcing me to choose between coding EVERYTHING and finding those items that will reveal the most about what I want (i.e., I found myself going to great pains to record a series of emails about the cultural content of a lesson. This is not unrelated to classroom management, because lessons that do not include material accessible to students (e.g., it's above their heads in some way, they have insufficient background knowledge, it's taught in a language they don't understand) are inevitably classroom management problems waiting to happen. But I really don't need to go that broard. I think I can show what I want to show just looking at teacher response to student misbehavior--and that makes me breathe a sigh of relief because that means I do not need to look back at all the written lesson plans until I suspect that lesson design was the cause of the problem and I need to support that assertion. Does that make sense? (Nod your head, sip your drink, look interested.)

Anyway, this is actually HUGELY helpful to me. It helps me see the wisdom in my advisor's comment that going into the (new) research project for this spring, I might want to focus on only three class periods with these students--versus trying to code every minute of the 16 to 20 sessions that we will meet.

But in the meantime, between teaching two classes, taking three classes, and working with the data monster of my MA Thesis, it's going to be a very, very busy semester. Maybe not so much time for knitting.

Helen Mary Harrington Black Humbarger

February 11, 1912 - January 16, 2011

We all miss her already, but you couldn't wish for a better exit from the stage of life. This one-time director and college-level teacher of theatre kept us company all day long during our most recent family get-together on the farm. Dozing off as needed, and watching thoughtfully while awake, she seemed to kind of like it when a great-grandchild or grandchild or daughter would take up the spot left at the end of the couch next to her feet. I'm not clear on the events or the time line, but I know that not long after we all left, she stopped wanting any food, sleeping more and more often, and finally refusing water, too. This sort of a goodbye to life is a gentle exit, free from discomfort. It is not a rapid exit, allowing time for her children to return once more to keep her (and each other) company. Her "children" (all grown with children and grandchidren of their own) by her second marriage were also able to come and say goodbye.

Helen was married to my grandfather for over 50 years. She raised a son and three daughters. She did the sort of hosting and traveling expected of the wife of a professor in those days. When I went to Ohio Wesleyan, they were mostly at home in Ohio or at the farm in Indiana, and I have written before about how much they meant to me while I was there.

I will link to an obituary when it is posted. Here it is: Obituary of Grandma Helen

I cannot post about Granma's passing without saying that the peace of mind and care she received in this past decade would not have been possible without the incredible sacrifice of time and energy on the part of her daughter, my youngest Aunt, Charlotte. Charlotte's care meant that Granma had both a trusted confidante and a highly trained personal nurse daily. It meant she could stay in a very nice assisted-living home even when dementia took a toll in the last few years. We didn't have to worry about Grandma with Charlotte at the wheel. I know we are all grateful for that.

I'm Awake

Tonight our quadrafire pellet stove malfunctioned and the ash box ignited. From the pattern of pellets in the ash box, my best guess is that the cleaning rod at the bottom of the crucible jammed partly open, causing the stove to attempt to light pellets, and feed pellets, continuously into the crucible. Smoldering pellets fell into the ashbox, and eventually there was way more fire in the stove than the stove could handle.

Eventually the whole house would have filled with smoke. I suppose the consequences of that could have been pretty devastating.

But it was okay because both of our smoke alarms have working batteries. I woke up and ran downstairs, took about a minute to assess the problem, followed my instincts or inspiration and got the stove to stop fanning the flames, got Chris up to help me, he opened the basement doors, and using my two best oven mitts, I got the ashbox out the garage doors and tossed the whole thing in the snow. Even with the oven mitts, that thing was hot.

Then I went back inside closed all the doors against the billowing smoke, and going back around out the front door, grabbed a shovel and piled snow on the smoking ash box. We're probably going to need a new ash box.

At this point the whole house still stinks of smoke and that acrid burning plastic smell. I think that's the exterior trim on the stove.

The front door is wide open, the back door wide open, some of the windows wide open.

Here's what I learned: the kids can sleep right through the blaring smoke alarms. I won't stay out past their bedtime without an adult babysitter who is going to stay up.

For years I've worried that in the event of a fire I wouldn't be able to wake my deep sleeping husband. Turns out he wakes right up the moment I say softly to him, in a certain tone of voice, "I need your help." Maybe that's the Spirit. Maybe that's 15 years of marriage. Probably a combination of both. All I know is I've hollared at him when a sick little boy was puking all over the place and he woke not knowing his own name.

Ugh. The smell is awful. I wonder if I should get out fans. It's been an hour now and I definitely want to go to sleep. Think I will go check the perimeter, the ash box, and if everything looks okay, start closing windows and doors and head back to bed.

Heesh

I just have a hard time making time to blog during the semester. There's so much going on and the day starts so early, goes full speed ahead, and ends with a quiet house and me trying to get a few minutes of quiet time.

Today was exciting. It started out great and it got better.

First, it was Ben and Milo's birthday. So we started the day with hugs and congratulations. They got to take cupcakes to school to celebrate and I managed to dodge the rain and get on the bus before the downpour.

Then I got the better part of an article about teaching math conceptually read before the first World Languages class. This was the first class since their student-teaching experience ended last Thursday, which meant for Michelle and I, a rediscovery of how much of our own classwork we could get done with all the extra time freed up by *not* typing up observation notes and lesson plan feedback. Still, it was good to see them all this morning. Working with undergrads has some things in common with working with fourth-graders. You get attached in no time.

After class we (Michelle and I) headed back to the office to eat lunch (she brought a yummy soup for us both) and to chat and to try to get more reading done. She headed off to her afternoon class and I fetched my car and went to get my mail, hoping for Max's report card. No luck, but we did get a lovely advent calendar from Grandma Donna and Grandpa Richard and the twins got a stack of birthday cards. I put those all aside for the future, triaged the bills, and headed over to the high school to finance Max and a friend who were carbo-loading (that's a joke. They're 14-yr-old boys. They just food load. Any food.) before theater rehearsal started. From there it was back to campus, having passed the magic hour (4 pm) when I no longer have to park in the next county with my student parking pass--I can park for free in the parking garage right next to the building where my evening class is.

Right before class I got an email from one of my advisors saying that an idea I have for a research project is not half bad and we should get together soon to go over it. I need a 1-credit independent study with this fellow to round out my ESL-certification requirements, so I had come up with an idea this weekend. I thought he might say no, because I have to work on my thesis this spring, too, but no, we'll meet and maybe my next research project will be with elementary ELLs. That would rock :)

We had class, it went well, and then I gave Michelle a ride out to her car (it started to rain buckets) and then I headed over to the church where Chris was waiting in the hallway with his reading material. He is the best ward mission leader ever. We hung out and talked and soaked up the happiness of the church building while the twins did cub scouts and ate birthday cupcakes. Then Chris ran over to the high school and got Max and I took Ben and Milo and friend's daughter home. When Chris and Max got home, Max gave Ben and Milo their birthday cards (+ Wii points) and performed for them an original rap he wrote to commemorate the occasion of their 9th birthday. We will try to record it later this week. Right now he needed to get some homework done and then collapse into bed.

There were lots of messages from loving family on the answering machine for the twins and they loved that. There voice mail on my phone for them and they loved that. And there was a call from California from Grandma Donna and Grandpa Richard and they loved that. Tomorrow night we'll have our "official" family party with Grandma Gaye and the rest of their cards and presents, but tonight was good, too.

Then we all went to bed, but when my head got to thinking instead of sleeping and Chris fell asleep listening to me talk about stuff (he gets up an hour earlier than I do to take Max to seminary every morning-trust me, I didn't take it personally) I got up again to go write some thoughts down. Then, just for the heck of it, I checked the high school's website and after signing it I found Max's report card. And lo and behold--it was all manner of As. Regular As, A-'s, and a genuine A+.

Any sleepy feelings I might have had went skidding out the window and I texted Grandpa and Grandma in California (because it was still a decent hour there) to tell them the good news. I'm so proud of all the hard work Max has put into this quarter. He really has made a tremendous effort to do his best, to improve his writing and his homework consistency, and I am ever so proud of him. We don't pay for As or use other "rewards" because we think those suck the intrinsic motivation out of school. We want him to set high standards because he knows he can meet them and it feels good to succeed, not because he'll get a wad of cash for it (and anyway, I can't afford those grades. He's got 8 periods of classes--no lunch. For that I could buy him a new cell phone and have change. I'm not doing that either.)

But we might take him out to lunch. A bottomless pit of french fries and a bacon burger and unlimited peanuts at Five Guys and an embarrassing stream of "We love you"s and "We're so proud of you"s. That's a good lunch, I think.

And now I should really attempt to go to sleep. Probably if I stop playing on the computer (and stop trying to cram for the graduate-school version of a vocabulary quiz) I'll blink and wake up at 7am to the alarm :)

Tomorrow is Wednesday and Wednesdays are my qual methods class, getting ready for the twins' birthday party, an hour of speech therapy for them, dinner, cake, and presents :) Another good day, don't you think?

Only two more days till curtain goes up. They do a school preview of The Winter's Tale at 10 am and then the actual performances Friday night, Saturday night, and Sunday matinee. Grandma Gaye and Grandma Judy will each go this weekend with their respective offspring. Then it's full speed ahead into Thanksgiving break. This year we're going to Philly to be with family there :) We're getting a hotel room Wednesday night at some variation of the hotel Marriot chain, and coming back Thursday evening. By this time two weeks from now, we'll have a Christmas tree in the corner. Good times :)